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HENRY  MARTYN 

CONFESSOR  OF  THE  FAITH 


V  '*  . 


HENRY  MARTYN 

AT  TWENTY-FOUR 


HENRY  MARTYN 

CONFESSOR 
OF  THE  FAITH 


By 

CONSTANCE  E.  PADWICK 


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NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


HENRY  MARTYN.V 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  BELOVED 
FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 


This  volume  is  the  first  of  a  uniform  series  of  new 
missionary  biographies. 

The  series  makes  no  pretence  of  adding  new  facts 
to  those  already  known.  The  aim  rather  is  to  give 
to  the  world  of  to-day  a  fresh  interpretation  and 
a  richer  understanding  of  the  life  and  work  of  great 
missionaries. 

A  group  of  unusually  able  writers  are  collaborating, 
and  three  volumes  will  be  issued  each  year. 

The  enterprise  is  being  undertaken  by  the  United 
Council  for  Missionary  Education,  for  whom  the  series 
is  published  by  the  Student  Christian  Movement. 

K.  M. 

A.  E.  C. 

U.C.M.E. 

2  Eaton  Gatn, 

S.W.1 


i 


AUTHOR’S  PREFACE 


When  Henry  Martyn’s  journals  reached  England 
after  his  death,  Charles  Simeon,  Mrs  Thomason 
and  John  Sargent  sat  closeted  together  for  three 
mornings  of  six  or  seven  hours  each,  reading  those 
travelled  pages.  In  that  reading  they  discovered 
their  friend  as  sometimes,  a  monk  being  dead,  his 
brothers  find  a  hair  shirt  and  a  scourge  of  which  they 
had  not  guessed.  For  Martyn’s  friends  knew  a 
man  who  played  with  children  and  with  little  dogs  ; 
and  a  friend  who  bubbled  over  with  welcoming  joy  ; 
and  a  scholar  of  luminous,  beauty-loving  mind ; 
and  an  adventurer  who  flung  himself  unquailing 
into  Paynim  camps  ;  and  a  saint  whose  face  some¬ 
times  abashed  them  by  its  shining.  But  now  they 
were  admitted  into  the  confessional,  and  they  saw 
laid  bare  before  the  heavenly  Surgeon  all  the  wounds 
and  festering  sores  of  a  turbulent  soul.  They  saw 
the  Surgeon’s  knife  and  the  quivering  wince  of  the 
penitent  spirit ;  and  they  caught  the  ineffable  glance 
of  confidence  that  passed  from  time  to  time  between 
the  two.  “  In  every  disease  of  the  soul,”  said  their 
friend,  “  let  me  charge  myself  with  the  blame  and 
Christ  with  the  cure  of  it,  so  shall  I  be  humbled  and 
Christ  glorified.” 

His  journal  of  self-examination  before  God  is  the 
first  and  greatest  source  of  our  knowledge  of  Martyn, 
and  this  book  about  him,  like  the  rest,  is  built  chiefly 
on  the  study  of  it. 


IO 


Henry  Martyn 


But  there  is  danger  from  the  use  of  such  a  source, 
that  we  know  our  Martyn  chiefly  as  the  great  penitent. 
The  first  friends,  to  whom  the  journal  came  as  a 
surprise,  had  in  mind  the  good  hours  when  someone 
showed  Martyn  a  copy  of  verses  or  a  new  Arabic 
grammar,  when  he  caught  the  twinkle  in  Corrie’s 
eye  at  Sabat’s  bombast  or  the  tricks  of  the  Cawnpore 
school-children,  or  when  the  jasmine  smelt  sweet  in 
the  sunset  and  he  drove  Mrs  Sherwood  a  devious 
course  in  his  gig,  absorbed  in  urging  upon  her  the 
joys  of  the  study  of  Hebrew.  But  we  who  never 
saw  him  romp  with  a  child  may  be  misled  by  meeting 
him  most  intimately  in  hours  of  penitence.  Sargent, 
his  first  biographer,1  “  perhaps  his  dearest  friend  ” 
and  like  himself  a  saint,  knew  the  man  so  well  and 
all  his  friends,  and  their  manner  of  life,  that  he  could 
not  suppose  description  necessary.  Simeon  and 
Wilberforce  might  yet  be  met  in  the  street,  letters 
from  Corrie  and  Thomason  might  come  by  any  mail. 
It  was  not  for  Sargent,  with  his  supreme  delicacy, 
to  draw  the  portraits  of  the  men  who  might  ride  to 
visit  him  in  his  rectory  under  the  Downs.  Therefore 
he  painted  the  spiritual  story  of  his  friend  with  the 
barest  earthly  background,  as  in  that  brief  biography 
which  says  that  “  Enoch  walked  with  God.” 

Yet  as  the  generations  pass  and  the  scenes  grow 
dim,  we  could  wish  that  Sargent  had  gone  down  to 
Cornwall  to  seek  out  some  old  serving-maid  of  good 
John  Martyn,  who  could  tell  us  about  Laura  and 
Henry  and  Sally  and  call  to  mind  the  ways  of  the 
plain  little  boy  with  warts  on  his  fingers.  And  had 
he  but  once  described  to  us  how  Henry  looked  up 
when  a  friend  broke  in  upon  him  in  his  college  rooms  ! 

1  Henry  Martyn ,  by  John  Sargent,  1816,  and  numerous  later  editions. 


Author’s  Preface 


1 1 


For  when  the  second  great  biography  of  Henry 
Martyn  was  published  in  1892  1  all  who  had  known 
the  man  were  gone,  and  the  modest  family  life  in 
Cornwall  had  left  very  little  trace  on  the  memory 
of  the  neighbourhood.  Yet  under  such  disadvan¬ 
tages  Dr  George  Smith,  who  brought  to  his  book  a 
knowledge  of  India  which  Sargent  could  not  claim, 
put  into  his  task  a  wealth  of  research  which  must 
make  it  always  the  standard  reference  book  on 
Martyn. 

There  is  nothing  new  in  the  present  little  book. 
The  Church  has  held  most  of  the  records  for  the 
greater  part  of  a  century :  Sargent’s  “  Life  ”  ;  the 
great  Journal ;  2  then,  as  Martyn’s  generation  died, 
the  sidelights  from  a  host  of  biographies  and  memoirs 
of  the  day  ;  the  Diary  of  Lydia  Grenfell ;  3  stray 
letters  and  magazine  articles  published  from  time  to 
time  ;  and  at  last  Dr  Smith’s  great  biography  in 
1892.  It  is  a  mass  of  material,  yet  with  it  all  there 
is  danger  of  forgetting  a  life  which  is  one  of  the 
treasures  of  our  spiritual  heritage. 

For  Sargent’s  book  in  the  religious  language  of 
1816  is  almost  strange  to  the  children  of  another 
century ;  and  Dr  Smith’s  generous  copiousness 
makes  his  too  costly  for  those  of  us  who  count  our 
pence.  We  shall  always  turn  gratefully  to  him  in 
the  library  ;  he  cannot  be  superseded  :  but  for  those 
who  are  poor  and  busy  he  may,  nay  probably  he  must , 
be  supplemented,  as  the  Church  in  each  generation 
looks  with  fresh  eyes  on  the  stores  of  her  spiritual 

1  Henry  Martyn,  Saint  and  Scholar,  by  George  Smith,  LL.D. 

1  Edited  by  Bishop  Samuel  Wilberforce  when  Rector  of  Brighstone, 
Isle  of  Wight,  1839. 

*  Deposited  in  the  Royal  Cornish  Institute,  Truro.  Extracts  from 
it  were  published  by  a  grand-nephew  in  1890. 


12 


Henry  Martyn 


heritage,  and  catches  the  glint  of  fresh  colours  in  the 
“  variegated  ”  grace  of  God. 

This  is  not  a  new  book  then,  but  a  re-reading  of  old 
records,  and  that  not  unaided  but  with  the  good  help 
of  kind  people  in  Cornwall,  Cambridge  and  London  too 
numerous  to  mention  by  name,  but  who  have  given 
generous  and  ready  help  in  regard  to  anything  and 
everything  in  which  ignorance  or  carelessness  stood 
in  need.  They  know  that  they  have  my  gratitude. 

Martyn  has  never  been  and  never  will  be  the  hero 
of  the  multitude,  but  each  generation  holds  some 
who  are  his  spiritual  kindred.  Across  the  lapse  of 
years  and  blurred  by  the  clumsy  transmission  of 
biographers,  these  will  still  catch  with  understanding 
ears  the  response  of  his  spirit  to  the  call  of  Christ. 


July  1922 


C.  E.  P. 


CONTENTS 


Author’s  Preface 
Table  of  Dates 


CHAP. 

I  Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs  • 

II  Cornwall  .  .  •  • 

III  Undergraduate  .  . 

IV  Fellow  of  St  John’s  . 

V  A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals 
VI  The  Lover  .... 

VII  The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 

VIII  Calcutta,  1806  .  . 

IX  Dinapore  .  .  .  . 

X  The  Linguist  .... 

XI  Cawnpore  .... 

XII  To  Shiraz  .... 

XIII  A  Year  among  the  Doctors  . 

XIV  The  Traveller  . 


Index 


PAGE 

9-12 

14-15 

17 

87 

48 

71 

93 

113 

127 

154 

175 

194 

214 

237 

260 

275 

301 


13 


TABLE  OF  DATES 


1774  Warren  Hastings  Governor-General  of  India 

1781  Henry  Martyn  born  at  Truro ,  February  18th 

In  this  year  Herschel  discovered  Uranus,  Lord  George 
Gordon  was  tried  in  Westminster  Hall,  Cowper  was  50, 
Sheridan  30,  Fanny  Burney  27,  Crabbe  27,  William  Godwin 
25,  Bums  22,  Cobbett  19,  Samuel  Rogers  18,  Words¬ 
worth  11,  Scott  10,  S.  T.  Coleridge  9,  Jane  Austen  7,  and 
Charles  Lamb  6 

1782  Charles  Simeon  began  work  at  Trinity  Church,  Cambridge 

1783  American  Independence  gained 

1784  Samuel  Johnson  died 

1786  Earl  Cornwallis  Governor-General  of  India 
David  Brown  landed  in  Calcutta 

1787  Charles  Grant  and  David  Brown  sent  home  their  “  Mentor  an* 

dum  ”  asking  for  missionary  schoolmasters 

1788  Henry  Martyn  entered  Truro  Grammar  School 

1789  Fall  of  the  Bastille 

1790  Burke’s  “  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  ” 

Charles  Grant  elected  to  one  of  the  Chairs  of  the  East  India 
Company 

1791  Thomas  Paine’s  “  Rights  of  Man  ” 

John  Wesley  died 

1793  Execution  of  Louis  XVI 

Sir  John  Shore  Governor-General  of  India 
William  Carey  reached  India  in  a  Danish  ship 

1797  Death  of  Burke 

Henry  Martyn  entered  St  John's  College,  Cambridge,  October 

1798  Battle  of  the  Nile 

Earl  of  Momington  (afterwards  Marquess  Wellesley) 
Governor-General  of  India 
William  Carey  set  up  his  printing  press 

1800  David  Brown  Provost  of  Fort  William  College 

1801  Martyn  Senior  Wrangler  and  First  Smith'  ,,  Prizeman 

1802  Martyn  Fellow  of  St  John's 
15 


Table  of  Dates 


1 6 


1803  War  declared  against  Napoleon,  May 
Martyn  ordained  at  Ely,  October 

1805  Wellesley  recalled  and  Cornwallis  appointed  to  India 
Death  of  Cornwallis 

Sir  George  Barlow  temporary  Governor-General 
Martyn  sailed  for  India  as  Chaplain  to  the  East  India  Company , 
July  16th 

Battle  of  Trafalgar,  October 

1806  Martyn  at  the  Capture  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope ,  January 
Death  of  Pitt,  January 

Martyn  landed  in  Calcutta ,  May 
Martyn  proceeded  to  Dinapore ,  October 

1807  Lord  Minto  Governor-General  of  India 
Martyn  began  the  Hindustani  New  Testament 

1809  Martyn  transferred  to  Caumpore,  April 

1810  The  Prince  of  Wales  appointed  Regent  for  George  III 
Complete  Hindustani  New  Testament  finished  for  press 
Martyn  left  Caumpore  with  Persian  and  Arabic  versions  of  ih& 

New  Testament ,  October 

1811  Martyn  reached  Shiraz  in  Persia ,  June 

1812  Martyn  set  out  from  Shiraz ,  May,  and  died  at  Tokat,  Asia 

Minor,  October  16th 

1815  Martyn' s  Persian  New  Testament  published  in  St  Petersburg 

1816  Martyn' s  Persian  New  Testament,  and  the  Arabic  New  Testa - 

ment  made  by  Sabat  under  his  supervision,  published  in 
Calcutta 


CHAPTER  I 


CALCUTTA  OF  THE  NABOBS 

Nabob,  noun  substantive.  [Nobobb,  a  nobleman,  “  in  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  the  Mogul’s  Kingdom  which  hath  mixt  with  it  much  of 
the  Persian,”  Sir  T.  Herbert.  Travels,  p.  99.]  The  title  of  an 
Indian  prince  ;  sometimes  applied  to  Europeans  who  have  ac¬ 
quired  great  riches  in  the  East  Indies.  —  Johnson's  English 
Dictionary  (Ed.  1827). 

The  style  we  prefer  is  the  humdrum. — Traditional  answer  of 
Directors  of  East  India  Company  to  an  official  who  asked  for 
guidance  in  writing  despatches. 

Words  have  their  day,  and  the  word  “  nabob  ” 
has  all  but  passed  out  of  currency  with  the  passing 
from  English  life  of  the  rather  pitiable  person  for 
whom  it  stood.  But  in  the  last  decades  of  the 
eighteenth  century  no  better  villain  could  be  desired 
for  stage  or  story  than  “  a  rich  Nabob  ”  returned 
from  Bengal.  Macaulay,  who  with  his  sisters 
burrowed  much  among  the  three -volume  novels  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  writing  in  1840  said,1  “  If 
any  of  our  readers  will  take  the  trouble  to  search 
in  the  dusty  recesses  of  circulating  libraries  for  some 
novel  published  sixty  years  ago,  the  chance  is  that 
the  villain  or  sub-villain  of  the  story  will  prove  to 
be  a  savage  old  Nabob,  with  an  immense  fortune, 
a  tawny  complexion,  a  bad  liver  and  a  worse  heart.” 
All  but  an  alien  on  his  native  soil,  this  villain  added 


B 


1  In  the  Essay  on  Clive. 


17 


i8 


Henry  Martyn 


to  his  other  crimes,  real  or  imagined,  the  crime  of 
differing  from  his  caste.  “For  your  Nabobs,  they 
are  but  a  kind  of  outlandish  creatures  that  won’t 
pass  current  with  us.”  1  What  more  could  comedy 
or  melodrama  want  ? 

Yet  the  nabob-to-be  began  life  much  like  other 
small  boys  of  the  day,  perhaps  as  one  of  Squire 
Roger’s  younger  sons,  for  whom  were  neither  family 
acres  nor  a  family  living,  or  maybe  as  a  son  of  the 
rectory,  where  Parson  Brown  had  word  one  day  from 
an  uncle  in  Leadenhall  Street  that  he  had  bespoken 
a  writership  in  the  East  India  Company  for  “  poor 
Charlotte’s  boy.”  At  sixteen  such  a  boy  spent  his 
last  morning  rabbiting  with  his  brother  and  the  dogs 
in  the  churchyard  spinney,  while  his  mother  sobbed 
her  heart  out  over  piles  of  lavender-scented  linen. 
The  coach  bore  away  a  ruddy  English  lad  with  a 
smattering  of  the  classics  and  a  capacity  for  honest 
affection.  Forty  years  later  the  countryside  would 
know  him  again  as  “  the  rich  Nabob  ”  who  called 
for  curricles  with  the  airs  of  a  prince,  and  showed 
a  pitiable  disregard  for  the  cost  of  living  and  the 
laws  of  fox-hunting.  “  Why  wherever  any  of  them 
settles,  it  raises  the  price  of  provisions  for  thirty 
miles  round,”  cries  the  Mayor  in  Foote’s  comedy 
quoted  above  ;  while  Lady  Oldham  explains  to  the 
audience  the  family  embarrassment  when  “  preceded 
by  all  the  pomp  of  Asia,  Sir  Matthew  Mite,  from  the 
Indies,  came  thundering  amongst  us  ;  and,  profusely 
scattering  the  spoils  of  ruined  provinces,  corrupted 
the  virtue  and  alienated  the  feelings  of  all  the  old 
friends  of  the  family.” 

The  process  to  which  the  nabob-to-be  was  sub- 

1  Foote,  The  Nabob ,  acted  at  Theatre  Royal,  Haymarket,  1778 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


19 


mitted  from  the  moment  when  the  East  Indiaman 
left  Tilbury  on  her  voyage  of  seven  or  more  months 
is  little  enough  pictured  by  us  now. 

44  Such  things  as  I  should  not  want  till  my  arrival 
in  India  were  made  very  large,  the  Captain  saying 
I  should  grow  very  much  during  the  passage,”  one 
of  those  young  44  writers  ”  tells  us.1 

We  are  forgetful  of  the  completeness  of  exile  in 
those  days  of  long,  slow  travel,  when  often  enough 
it  took  eighteen  months  to  receive  the  reply  to  a 
letter  sent  home.  We  hardly  realize  the  gradual 
wearing  down  of  standards  as  home  memories  grew 
faint  and  the  physical  and  moral  climate  did  their 
enervating  work.  We  are  apt  to  see  the  India  of 
the  Company  through  the  stories  of  men  like  Clive, 
Warren  Hastings,  or  Wellesley  the  imperious.  Such 
as  these  could  not  but  be  chief  actors  on  any  stage. 
They  were  men  of  vivid,  restless  genius,  and  of 
political  imagination,  in  whose  actions,  good  or  bad, 
we  find  something  of  44  the  grand  style.”  For  men 
of  such  gifts  life  is  not  dull,  and  through  their  eyes 
we  see  romance. 

But  for  the  boy  of  ordinary  gifts  life  in  44  the  East 
Indies  ”  was  often  a  tedious  affair.  44  The  waste  of 
spirits  in  this  cursed  country  is  a  disease  unconquer¬ 
able,  a  misery  unutterable,”  wTrote  Francis,  the  arch¬ 
foe  of  Warren  Hastings.  At  the  age  when  his 
brother  entered  the  University  our  boy  was  cast 
upon  a  Calcutta  that  had  only  one  carriage  road,  the 
dusty  44  Course,”  and  one  small  theatre,  built  by 
subscription  and  managed  by  amateur  actors,  who 
in  their  zeal  for  the  drama  wrere  apt  to  undertake 
parts  beyond  their  power,  with  the  result  that 

1  Travel s  *n  India  a  Hundred  Years  Ago ,  Thomas  Twining,  1893. 


20 


Henry  Martyn 


44  many  went  to  see  a  tragedy  for  the  express  purpose 
of  enjoying  a  laugh.”  1  He  found  indeed  a  little 
coterie  of  English  hostesses  who  received  every 
evening,  and  beyond  a  doubt  were  kind  to  striplings 
fresh  from  home.  But  the  balls  of  Calcutta  pro¬ 
vided  no  blushing  English  maidens  for  the  boy  to 
adore  or  play  with.  Ladies  he  found  there  of 
strange  descent  and  stranger  history,  and  Hicky’s 
Bengal  Gazette,  the  first  English  newspaper  in  India 
(published  Calcutta,  1780),  shows  plainly  enough  how 
the  little,  bored  society  looked  for  the  enlivenment 
of  their  hard,  hot  lives  to  the  relish  of  betting  and 
unsavoury  scandal.  64 1  don’t  think  the  greatest  sap 
at  Eton  can  lead  a  duller  life  than  this  ”  Lord 
Cornwallis  wrote  to  his  schoolboy  son,  during  his 
first  governor-generalship  (1786-1795).  And  our 
nabob-to-be  soon  learnt  to  echo  the  sentiments  of 
that  industrious  and  high-minded  chief,  and  to  seek 
distraction  in  arrack  punch  and  heavy  dinners  or  in 
stables  for  which  his  salary  during  his  first  five  years 
as  an  44  apprentice  ”  was  inadequate.  But  44  a 
Company’s  servant,”  as  a  contemporary  letter  tells 
us,  “  will  always  find  numbers  ready  to  support  his 
extravagance  ;  and  it  is  not  uncommon  to  see 
writers  within  a  few  months  after  their  arrival 
dashing  away  on  the  Course  four-in-hand.”  2 

The  boy’s  intercourse  with  the  people  of  that 
eastern  world,  in  which  his  station  was  a  tiny  island 
of  European  life,  would  seem  to  have  been  of  the 
slightest.  Unless  he  aimed  ambitiously  at  diplo¬ 
matic  tasks — when  he  studied  Persian,  the  language 
of  eastern  court  etiquette — he  did  not  take  seriously 

1  Mrs  Eliza  Fay,  Original  Letters  from  India ,  p.  279. 

*  Ibid.  Letter  written  on  29th  August  1780. 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


21 


the  learning  of  any  oriental  language.  And  when  he 
did  take  lessons,  his  teacher  was  regarded  by  this 
young  lord  of  creation  as  only  another  servant  of  a 
rather  superior  grade,  “  permitted  by  many  of  the 
more  liberal  students  to  enter  the  apartments  without 
taking  off  his  shoes  ;  an  omission  for  which  the 
other  servants  would  be  severely  punished.” 1 
Throughout  his  long  years  of  exile  the  Company’s 
English  servant  may  never  have  experienced  the 
intellectual  and  spiritual  adventure  of  friendship 
with  an  eastern  gentleman.  When  even  Sir  William 
Jones,  who  reached  European  fame  as  an  orientalist, 
was  yet  “  quite  unintelligible  in  Calcutta  to  any 
native  in  any  eastern  tongue,”  it  is  not  surprising 
that  our  more  ordinary  boy  never  reached  converse 
with  the  more  thoughtful  minds  of  India.  “  Portu¬ 
guese  was  the  ordinary  medium  of  communication 
between  the  Europeans  and  their  domestics.  .  .  . 
Even  in  Calcutta  Portuguese  was  more  commonly 
used  by  the  servants  of  the  Company  and  the 
settlers  than  the  language  of  the  country.  .  .  .  Down 
to  so  late  a  period  as  1828,  the  governor  of  Seram- 
pore,2  a  Norwegian,  received  the  daily  report  of  his 
little  garrison  of  thirty  sepoys  from  the  native  com¬ 
mandant,  a  native  of  Oude,  in  Portuguese.”  3 

The  ordinary  boy’s  intercourse  with  the  people 
of  India  was  limited  to  business  relationships  in 
which  he  depended  much  on  the  clumsy  aid  of  the 
interpreter,  and  to  his  dealings,  some  of  them,  alas, 
deplorable,  with  what  seemed  to  him  at  first  a  vast 


1  D’Oyley,  The  European  in  India ,  1813. 

a  Serampore  was  a  Danish  settlement  on  the  Hooghly  sixteen  miles 
above  Calcutta. 

*  Marshman,  History  of  the  Serampore  Mission ,  pp.  21,  22. 


22 


Henry  Martyn 


and  wondrous  docile  army  of  servants  round  his  new 
home — a  cringing  and  salaaming  population  whose 
servility  tempted  him  to  think  them  made  for  his 
good  pleasure.  The  charge  sheet  of  the  Calcutta 
superintendent  of  police  in  1778  contains  the  follow¬ 
ing  among  similar  items  : 

“  129.  A  slave  girl  of  Mr  Anderson,  Piggy,  having 
i  run  away  from  her  master  and  being  apprehended 
by  the  Chowkedar — ordered  her  five  rattans  and  to 
be  sent  to  her  master.” 

So  late  as  1800  Lord  Wellesley,  his  imagination 
aflame  with  the  vision  of  his  ideal  administrator, 
was  pulled  up  short  by  what  he  knew  of  the  down¬ 
ward,  sensuous  pull  of  a  servile  population.  Of 
English  boys  sent  to  up-country  stations  he  wrote 
in  unvarnished  words  that  “  sloth,  indolence,  low 
debauchery,  and  vulgarity  are  too  apt  to  grow 
on  those  young  men  who  have  been  sent  at  an 
early  age  into  the  interior  part  of  the  country  and 
have  laid  the  foundations  of  their  life  and  manners 
among  the  coarse  vices  and  indulgences  of  those 
countries.” 

John  Clark  Marshman,  who  knew  his  Calcutta  as 
few  men  knew  it,  tells  the  same  tale  : 

The  number  of  English  ladies  in  the  country  was 
lamentably  small.  ...  In  the  days  of  Warren 
Hastings  (Governor  1772-85)  the  arrival  of  a  spinster 
from  England  was  an  event,  and  it  was  inaugurated 
by  a  succession  of  balls.  The  great  bulk  of  the 
Europeans  both  in  and  out  of  the  service,  lived  un¬ 
married  with  native  females,  and  their  leisure  was 
spent  in  the  most  debasing  associations.  The  young 
civilian  was  told  that  one  of  his  first  duties  was  to 
“  stock  a  zenana.” 

William  Macintosh,  a  political  journalist,  who 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


23 


sheltered  his  possibly  libellous  attacks  on  the  friends 
of  Warren  Hastings  under  the  transparent  veil  of 
initials  and  dashes,  published  in  1782  an  account  1 
of  “  The  Manner  in  which  the  Day  is  commonly 
spent  by  an  Englishman  in  Bengal.”  Political 
opponents  criticizing  his  book  said  that  he  made  an 
unfair  use,  in  writing  the  sketch,  of  the  hospitality 
of  a  plump,  good-natured  soul  who  gave  him  the 
freedom  of  his  Calcutta  house.  They  do  not  call 
in  question  the  truthfulness  of  the  picture,  though 
they  would  have  us  remember  that  there  were  other 
more  energetic  households,  and  that  as  a  general 
rule  “  the  young  gentlemen,  as  soon  after  their 
arrival  as  they  can,  muster  money  to  buy  a  horse, 
ride  a  little  before  daybreak  until  eight  o’clock,  then 
breakfast  and  go  directly  to  the  public  offices.”  2 
Macintosh’s  description  must  be  read  with  his  own 
spelling  : 

About  the  hour  of  seven  in  the  morning,  his  durvan 
(porter  or  door-keeper)  opens  the  gate,  and  the  viranda 
(gallery)  is  free  to  his  circars,  peons  (footmen),  har- 
carrahs  (messengers  or  spies),  chubdars  (a  kind  of 
constable),  houccabadars  and  consumas  (or  steward 
and  butler),  writers  and  solicitors.  The  head-bearer 
and  jemmadar  enter  the  hall,  and  his  bedroom  at 
eight  o’clock.  A  lady  quits  his  side,  and  is  conducted 
by  a  private  staircase,  either  to  her  own  apartment, 
or  out  of  the  yard.  The  moment  the  master  throws 
his  legs  out  of  bed,  the  whole  posse  in  waiting  rush 
into  his  room,  each  making  three  salams,  by  bending 
the  body  and  head  very  low,  and  touching  the  fore¬ 
head  with  the  inside  of  the  fingers,  and  the  floor  with 
the  back  part.  He  condescends,  perhaps,  to  nod  or 
cast  an  eye  towards  the  solicitors  of  his  favour  and 

1  In  his  Travels  in  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa. 

*  Captain  J.  Price,  Some  Observations  on  a  late  Publication  entitled 
‘  Travels  in  Asia,”  1783. 


24 


Henry  Martyn 


protection.  In  about  half-an-hour,  after  undoing 
and  taking  off  his  long  drawers,  a  clean  shirt,  breeches, 
stockings  and  slippers,  are  put  upon  his  body,  thighs, 
legs  and  feet,  without  any  greater  exertion  on  his 
part  than  if  he  were  a  statue.  The  barber  enters, 
shaves  him,  cuts  his  nails,  and  cleans  his  ears.  The 
chillumjee  and  ewer  are  brought  by  a  servant,  whose 
duty  it  is,  who  pours  water  upon  his  hands  to  wash 
his  hands  and  face,  and  presents  a  towel. 

The  superior  then  walks  in  state  to  his  breakfasting 
parlour  in  his  waistcoat  ;  is  seated  ;  the  consumah 
makes  and  pours  out  his  tea,  and  presents  him  with 
a  plate  of  bread  or  toast.  The  hair-dresser  comes 
behind,  and  begins  his  occupation  while  the  houc- 
cabadar  softly  slips  the  upper  end  of  the  snake  or  tube 
of  the  houcca  into  his  hand.  While  the  hair-dresser 
is  doing  his  duty,  the  gentleman  is  eating,  sipping, 
and  smoaking  by  turns.  By  and  by  his  banian  pre¬ 
sents  himself  with  humble  salams,  and  advances 
somewhat  more  forward  than  the  other  attendants. 
If  any  of  the  solicitors  are  of  eminence  they  are 
honoured  with  chairs. 

These  ceremonies  are  continued  perhaps  till  ten 
o’clock ;  when,  attended  by  his  cavalcade,  he  is 
conducted  to  his  palanquin,  and  preceded  by  eight 
to  twelve  chubdars,  harcarrahs  and  peons  with  the 
insignia  of  their  professions,  and  their  livery  dis¬ 
tinguished  by  the  colour  of  their  turbans  and  cumber- 
bands  (a  long  muslin  belt  wrapt  round  the  waist) 
they  move  off  at  a  quick  amble  ;  the  set  of  bearers, 
consisting  of  eight  generally  relieve  each  other,  with 
alertness,  and  without  incommoding  the  master. 
If  he  has  visits  to  make,  his  peons  lead  and  direct  the 
bearers  ;  and  if  business  renders  his  presence  only 
necessary,  he  shews  himself,  and  pursues  his  other 
engagements  until  two  o’clock,  when  he  and  his 
company  sit  down,  perfectly  at  ease  in  point  of  dress 
and  address,  to  a  good  dinner,1  each  attended  by  his 

1  Mrs  Eliza  Fay  gives  an  account  to  her  sister  at  home  of  the  daily 
dinner  in  her  Calcutta  home,  a  household  of  only  moderate  means, 
in  the  summer  of  1780.  She  and  her  husband  dined  on  “  a  soup,  a 
roast  fowl,  curry  and  rice,  a  mutton  pie,  a  forequarter  of  lamb,  a  rice 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


25 


own  servant.  And  the  moment  the  glasses  are 
introduced,  regardless  of  the  company  of  ladies,  the 
houccabadars  enter,  each  with  a  houcca,  and  presents 
the  tube  to  his  master,  watching  behind  and  blowing 
the  fire  the  whole  time.1  As  it  is  expected  that  they 
shall  return  to  supper,  at  four  o’clock  they  begin  to 
withdraw  without  ceremony,  and  step  into  their 
palanquins  ;  so  that  in  a  few  minutes,  the  master  is 
left  to  go  into  his  bedroom,  when  he  is  instantly 
undressed  to  his  shirt,  and  his  long  drawers  put  on  ; 
and  he  lies  down  on  his  bed,  where  he  sleeps  till  about 
seven  or  eight  o’clock :  then  the  former  ceremony  is 
repeated,  and  clean  linen  of  every  kind,  as  in  the 
morning,  is  administered  ;  his  houccabadar  presents 
the  tube  to  his  hand,  he  is  placed  at  the  tea  table, 
and  his  hair-dresser  performs  his  duty  as  before. 
After  tea,  he  puts  on  a  handsome  coat,  and  pays  visits 
of  ceremony  to  the  ladies  :  2  returns  a  little  before 
ten  o’clock,  supper  being  served  at  ten.  The  com¬ 
pany  keep  together  till  between  twelve  and  one  in 
the  morning,  preserving  great  sobriety  and  decency  ; 
and  when  they  depart,  our  hero  is  conducted  to  his 
bedroom,  w'here  he  finds  a  female  companion  to 
amuse  him  until  the  hour  of  seven  or  eight  next 
morning. 

The  record  gives  rise  to  many  reflections,  among 
them  one  as  to  the  comparative  modernness  of  the 
habit  of  the  daily  tub.3  It  must  be  remembered 

pudding,  tarts,  very  good  cheese,  fresh  churned  butter,  fine  bread, 
excellent  Madeira.”  This  tiffin  was  eaten  without  ice.  There  were 
giants  in  those  days  ! 

1  If  ladies  were  present  it  was  considered  a  delicate  compliment  for 
a  beau  to  whip  from  his  pocket  a  silver  mouthpiece,  fix  it  to  his  hookah 
and  offer  it  to  the  lady  at  his  side. 

3  Mrs  Eliza  Fay  again  enlightens  us  as  to  the  ways  of  that  almost 
forgotten  little  world.  “  Formal  visits  are  paid  in  the  evening,”  she 
tells  her  sister.  “  Gentlemen  call  to  pay  their  respects  and  if  asked  to 
put  down  their  hats,  it  is  considered  as  an  invitation  to  supper.” 

3  D’Oyley’s  European  in  India ,  published  thirty  years  later,  tells  us 
that  three  or  four  pots  of  cold  water  were  sometimes  thrown  over  the 
master’s  head  to  brace  him  before  dressing  for  dinner. 


26 


Henry  Mcirtyn 


that  the  Englishmen  who  suffered  themselves  to 
be  dressed  and  carried  like  luxurious  dolls  were 
living  in  a  Bengal  where  the  swing  punkah  was  yet 
unknown  1  and  from  which  there  was  no  escape  to 
a  hill  station.  Yet  even  so,  one  whose  daily  life 
is  here  described  has  travelled  far  in  spirit,  and 
his  mother’s  seven-or-eight-months-old  letters  must 
strike  a  wistful  note  when  she  writes  in  her  Italian 
hand  to  tell  of  little  Fanny’s  first  ball  and  the  moss 
rosebuds  in  her  hair. 

No  one  can  read  the  despatches  to  the  India  House 
without  realizing  that  in  the  great  affairs  of  the 
Company  many  men  must  have  lived  more  laborious 
lives  than  this.  Yet  it  is  significant  that  the  lively 
author  of  the  description  quoted  above  felt  impelled 
to  no  further  comment  than  the  remark  that  44  with 
no  greater  exertions  than  these  do  the  Company’s 
servants  amass  the  most  splendid  fortunes.” 

One  is  forced  to  the  conclusion  that,  with  the 
great  exceptions  of  high-minded  men  like  Cornwallis, 
Shore,  Wellesley,  or  Grant,  the  latter  eighteenth 
century  had  settled  down  quite  complacently  to 
regard  44  the  East  Indies  ”  as  a  gold  mine. 

There  is  more  of  the  spirit  of  the  counter  than 
one  likes  to  confess  among  44  The  Honourable  the 
Court  of  Directors  for  the  affairs  of  the  United 
Company  of  Merchants  of  England  trading  to  the 
East  Indies  ”  Auspicio  Regis  et  Senatus  Anglice . 
They  were  decorously  anxious  for  dividends.  Warren 
Hastings  was  appointed  to  Bengal  for  his  good 
management  of  warehouses  in  Madras,  and  his  first 
business  was  to  make  Bengal  pay.  The  Directors 
suffered  many  a  financial  tremor  in  the  days  of  the 

1  It  was  still  a  novelty  in  1801. 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


27 


patrician  Wellesley  44  who  endeavoured  in  redun¬ 
dantly  eloquent  despatches  to  reconcile  his  deeds 
with  the  pacific  tone  of  his  instructions.”  1  They 
felt  that  creator  of  great  schemes  and  enterprises 
to  be  an  ornament  to  their  administration,  but  how 
expensive  an  ornament  !  Small  wonder  if  their 
servants  caught  their  spirit.  Sir  Harry  Verelst 
described  the  English  in  Bengal  as  44  a  colony  of 
merchants,  governed  by  laws  and  influenced  by 
principles  merely  commercial.”  2 

We  looked  no  further  than  the  provision  of  the  Com¬ 
pany’s  investment.  We  sought  advantages  to  our 
trade,  with  the  ingenuity,  I  may  add  the  selfishness 
of  merchants.  .  .  .  All  our  servants  and  dependents 
were  trained  and  educated  in  the  same  notions  ;  the 
credit  of  a  good  bargain  was  the  utmost  scope  of  their 
ambition. 

Little  guessed  that  old,  bourgeois  Calcutta  of  the 
merchants  that  she  was  the  stage  set  for  a  drama 
of  spiritual  adventure.  Yet  so  it  was.  The  saints 
were  coming  to  town.  As  when  a  Christian  man 
first  trod  the  forum  of  some  lustful  Roman  city,  and 
his  spirit,  fain  of  the  eternal  beauty,  felt  the  unclean 
life  around  him  to  be  44  earthly,  sensual,  devilish  ”  ; 
or  as  when  two  brothers  of  St  Francis,  their  hearts 
singing  with  the  beauty  of  poverty  for  Christ,  first 
visited  the  greedy  court  of  an  Italian  merchant 
prince,  so  when  men  who  had  caught  the  spirit  of 
Christ  first  touched  the  sordid  life  of  old  Calcutta, 
there  followed  struggle  and  the  hardness  of  moral 
choice  in  many  lives. 

They  came  in  the  rather  prosaic  garb  of  chaplains 

1  A.  F.  Pollard,  History  of  England. 

*  Letter  to  Council  of  Fort  William,  December  1769. 


28 


Henry  Martyn 


of  the  East  India  Company  :  in  matters  of  taste, 
men  of  their  day,  with  a  power  of  enjoying  if  not  of 
producing  “  poetical  effusions  ”  that  leave  us  cold, 
and  a  habit  in  penitent  moments  of  describing  them¬ 
selves  as  “  contemptible  and  wretched  worms.” 
But  behind  the  high  neck-cloths  and  the  language 
of  eighteenth-century  religious  diaries  we  find  the 
infallible  marks  of  the  friends  of  Jesus. 

The  precursor  and  father  of  the  little  group 
arrived  when  Calcutta  was  sweltering  in  the  hot 
weather  of  1786,  with  his  wife  and  a  baby  born  at 
sea.  The  Company  had  sent  for  “  a  clergyman  and 
a  married  man  ”  to  take  charge  of  their  new  Military 
Orphan  Asylum.  The  Reverend  David  Brown  who 
responded  to  their  call  was  the  son  of  a  Yorkshire 
farm-house,  who  brought  to  his  Calcutta  home,  along 
with  a  solid  classical  education,  a  certain  wholesome 
shrewdness,  and  the  tradition  of  hearty  and  generous 
hospitality.  Through  twenty-five  years  of  service 
with  only  one  fortnight  of  furlough  he  kept  the 
countryman’s  fresh  colouring.  He  was  no  pallid 
saint.  But  Calcutta  found  in  that  Yorkshireman  a 
spirit  that  was  strange  to  her. 

When  he  discovered  that  he  was  to  have  the 
charge  of  five  hundred  orphans  instead  of  the  forty- 
five  of  whom  he  had  been  told,  and  that  the  salary 
was  considerably  less  than  had  been  represented,  he 
accepted  the  situation  with  the  remark  in  his  diary 
that  “  since  a  larger  field  of  usefulness  was  thus 
opened  to  my  view,  I  regretted  not  the  diminution 
of  salary.”  1  This  Yorkshireman  must  be  reckoned 
with.  He  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  continual 
reference  to  a  standard  that  Calcutta  had  forgotten. 

1  Memorial  of  the  Rev.  David  Brown ,  1816,  p.  298. 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


29 


44  I  now  sit  down  in  a  house  of  my  own,”  he  wrote, 
44  but  my  good  Master  had  not  where  to  lay  His  head. 
.  .  .  He  emptied  Himself  of  all  and  was  literally 
the  poorest  of  men.” 

His  habit  of  reference  to  another  standard  led 
David  Brown  to  do  strange  things.  He  found  in 
the  city  an  ugly  and  at  that  time  glaring  building 
known  as  44  The  Red  Church  ”  (now  44  The  Old 
Mission  Church,”  Mission  Row),  built  sixteen  years 
before  his  coming  at  the  private  expense  of  a  Danish 
missionary,  and  still  the  only  Church  in  Bengal.1 
Calcutta  society  affirmed  that  44  by  Gad,  the  place 
is  only  fit  for  stable-boys  and  low  Portuguese.” 
Church-going  was  not  modish,  and  Sunday  was  the 
day  for  races.  Moreover  it  was  impossible  to  go 
to  Church  without  considerable  ceremony.  44  If  you 
were  a  person  of  fashion  yet  did  not  choose  to  go 
to  Church  in  your  yellow  chariot,  you  would  arrive 
in  a  neat  sedan  chair,  gleaming  with  black  lacquer. 
You  brought  at  least  seven  servants  with  you, — four 
chair-bearers,  two  running  footmen  with  spears  and 
one  parasol  bearer.2  A  lady  told  David  Brown  that 
44  she  had  been  more  than  twelve  years  a  resident 
of  Calcutta,  and  twice  married  ;  but  it  had  been  out 
of  her  power  in  all  that  time  to  go  to  Church,  because 
she  had  never  had  an  offer  from  any  beau  to  escort 
her  there  and  hand  her  to  a  pew.” 

The  very  small  group  of  very  mixed  parentage 
that  looked  to  44  the  Red  Church  ”  for  help,  was  now 
without  a  shepherd,  and  David  Brown  44  thought  of 
those  with  whom  his  Divine  Master  associated  ” 

1  But  another  was  then  a-building  and  was  consecrated  in  June 
1787  as  St  John’s  Church,  now  generally  known  as  “  The  old  Cathedral.’* 

*  Hyde,  The  Parish  of  Bengal,  p.  190. 


3° 


Henry  Martyn 


and  offered  himself  as  unsalaried  chaplain.  Calcutta 
sniffed,  but  in  spite  of  herself  was  drawn  to  the  big- 
hearted  man  who  never  took  a  baptism  or  a  marriage 
service  without  a  deep  human  emotion  that  could 
not  be  altogether  hidden  from  the  men  and  women 
he  had  come  to  serve. 

Like  draws  to  like,  and  David  Brown  had  not 
been  many  days  in  Calcutta  before  he  was  asked 
to  dine  with  the  “  Senior  Merchant  ”  of  the  Company 
and  found  a  friend. 

Charles  Grant,  later  to  be  celebrated  in  the  Councils 
of  the  East  India  Company  “  for  an  understanding 
large  enough  to  embrace,  without  confusion,  the 
entire  range  and  the  intricate  combinations  of  their 
whole  civil  and  military  policy,  and  for  nerves  which 
set  fatigue  at  defiance,”  1  was  a  Highland  Scot  whose 
father  had  been  fighting  for  the  Stuarts  at  Culloden 
at  the  very  hour  of  his  birth.  He  was  known  in 
Calcutta  as  a  man  long  of  limb  and  long  of  face,  his 
sagacious  countenance  under  massive  brows  singu¬ 
larly  steadfast  and  immovable,  but  softening  when 
he  glanced  at  the  adorable  wife  whom  he  had  brought 
to  India  as  a  bride  of  seventeen,  an  apt  musician 
and  a  charming  dancer.  She  made  his  house  a  home 
of  rare  delight  and  gave  him  two  baby  girls,  loved 
by  both  parents  with  the  almost  desperate  affection 
that  surrounds  the  delicate  babes  of  a  household 
in  the  tropics.  The  head  of  the  house  for  all  his 
home  affections  followed  the  ordinary  standards  of 
Calcutta  society,  and  the  one  shadow  in  the  house¬ 
hold  was  cast  by  the  master’s  gambling  debts  which 
piled  up  far  higher  than  his  means  of  payment. 

Then,  with  dreadful  suddenness,  the  light  went  out 

1  Sir  James  Stephen,  Essays  in  Ecclesiastical  Biography. 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


3i 


from  their  home  as,  within  a  few  days,  first  one  little 
daughter  and  then  the  other  was  carried  off  by 
smallpox,  and  the  twenty-year-old  mother  was  left 
distraught  with  grief,  springing  up  now  and  then  in 
the  belief  that  she  was  waking  from  a  nightmare 
and  would  find  her  babies  in  their  nursery,  only  to 
suffer  her  first  agony  over  again  when  she  reached 
the  empty  room. 

To  the  father’s  conscience  it  seemed  “  a  judgment 
from  heaven  ”  on  his  selfish  and  worldly  courses. 
Atonement  must  be  made.  In  agony  of  soul  he 
broke  through  his  lifelong  reserve  and  went  to 
Dr  Kiernander  the  old  Danish  missionary  who  had 
built  the  Red  Church.  “  I  found  him  lying  on  the 
couch.  My  anxious  enquiries  as  to  what  I  could  do 
to  be  saved  appeared  to  embarrass  and  confuse 
him  exceedingly ;  and  when  I  left  him  the  per¬ 
spiration  was  running  from  his  face  in  consequence, 
as  it  appeared  to  me,  of  his  mental  distress.”  1 
Charles  Grant  came  away  from  the  only  religious 
specialist  within  his  ken,  as  miserable  as  he  went. 
It  was  his  young  wife  who  brought  him  peace.  She 
noticed,  even  in  her  own  sorrow,  his  heavy  spiritual 
anxiety  and  turned  to  search  such  good  books  as 
she  had,  for  help  for  both  of  them.  In  the  New 
Testament  she  found  the  way  of  peace  and  wrote  her 
Charles  a  letter  to  tell  of  her  discovery  : 

Now  is  not  this  the  sinner  whom  our  blessed  Saviour 
invites  to  come  unto  Him  with  promises  of  lightening 
his  burden  and  giving  him  rest  ?  I  think  it  is.2 

He  thought  so  too  when  her  faith  led  the  way, 
and  together  they  remodelled  the  life  of  their  house- 

1  George  Smith,  Twelve  Indian  Statesmen,  p.  12. 

*  Morris,  Life  of  Charles  Grant,  p.  64. 


I 


32 


Henry  Martyn 


hold,  as  those  who  openly  confessed  that  One  was 
their  Master,  even  Christ.  Charles  Grant  set  him¬ 
self  grimly  to  the  task  of  paying  off  his  gaming 
debts  and  cleared  them  in  four  years.  His  work 
for  the  Company,  in  which  his  calmly  sane  intellect 
shone  out,  became  the  work  of  one  who  cared  for 
India  and  her  peoples  with  a  disinterested  love  that 
rose  above  party  politics  or  dividends.  “  The  views 
which  are  entertained  by  statesmen  and  others  for 
the  welfare  of  India,”  he  wrote  in  a  letter  of  1784, 
“  are  so  disturbed  by  party  as  to  be  sometimes 
indistinct.  Ambition  and  party,  in  a  word,  have 
marred  all  that  has  been  intended  for  the  benefit 
of  this  country  for  ten  years  past.  .  .  .  How  few 
....  rise  above  the  mists  of  present  passions  to 
objects  having  respect  to  4  Him  who  is  invisible.’  ” 

To  one  trying  to  guide  his  personal  and  public 
life  by  standards  so  different  from  those  current  in 
Calcutta,  the  coming  of  David  Brown  was  a  great 
event.  In  nothing  were  these  two  more  unique  than 
in  their  relationships  with  the  people  of  India. 
David  Brown  at  once  “dedicated  some  attention  to 
the  languages  of  the  country  ”  and  though  he  made 
it  plain  to  Calcutta  that  he  was  not  the  man  for 
nautch  displays,  he  proceeded  to  go  “  among  the 
Hindoos  in  a  way  not  usual  with  the  English.  He 
attended,  in  their  domestic  circles,  their  literary  and 
religious  entertainments  ”  and  behaved  there  “  wTith 
urbanity  and  respect.” 1  David  Brown,  Charles 
Grant,  and  two  like-minded  friends,2  persisted  in 
seeing  in  the  people  of  India  men  and  women  with 

1  Memorial  of  the  Rev.  David  Brown ,  p.  71. 

*  Mr  William  Chambers,  the  East  India  Company’*  •hief  linguist, 
and  Mr  George  Udny,  indigo  planter. 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


33 


spiritual  struggles  as  interesting  to  God  as  their  own. 
With  all  appearances  in  Church  and  State  against 
them,  they  dared  to  see  a  vision  of  spiritual  kinship 
with  India,  and  to  believe  that  her  people  might 
come  to  share  in  what  was  for  them  the  supreme 
experience  of  life,  the  touch  of  the  Living  Christ  on 
the  spirit  of  a  man. 

They  did  not  stop  at  dreaijiing,  but  wrote  out  a 
proposal  which  they  sent  home  to  clergy  and  members 
of  Parliament,  calling  for  volunteer  missionary 
schoolmasters  to  come  to  Bengal  where  the  Company 
had  not  yet  raised  a  finger  for  the  intellectual  or 
moral  enlightenment  of  its  eastern  subjects.  They 
asked  for  44  fit  men,  of  free  minds,  disinterested, 
zealous,  and  patient  of  labour,  who  would  accept  of 
an  invitation,  and  aspire  to  the  arduous  office  of  a 
missionary.  .  .  .  His  work  must  be  his  business, 
his  delight,  and  reward.  .  .  .  Men  who  are  ready 
to  endure  hardships  and  to  suffer  the  loss  of  all 
things.” 

Knowing  their  England  they  sent  this  appeal  to 
ardent  souls,  clergy  whose  zeal  had  earned  them 
the  name  of  44  Methodist,”  and  philanthropists  like 
William  Wilberforce  and  Robert  Raikes.  Raikes  in 
his  reply  suggested  that  they  had  made  a  false  step 
in  asking  the  44  methodist  ”  clergy  to  forward  their 
adventure,  for,  said  he,  the  bishops  44  never  like 
to  give  the  reins  into  the  hands  of  men  of  warm 
imaginations.” 

Charles  Grant  and  David  Brown,  for  all  their 
spiritual  daring,  were  government  officials  used  to 
working  through  official  channels  ;  and  while  they 
were  under  no  delusions  as  to  the  difficulties  ahead, 
it  yet  never  occurred  to  either  of  them  that  their 


34 


Henry  Marty n 


new  scheme  should  be  independent  of  the  official 
sanction  of  the  leaders  of  Church  and  State.  They 
were  before  the  day  when  great  private  and  voluntary 
societies  within  the  Church  undertook  her  missionary 
enterprises.  The  immense  growth  of  these  in  the 
nineteenth  century  was  at  once  a  forward  and  a 
backward  step  ;  forward  in  that  the  societies  re¬ 
vealed  a  number  of  the  Church’s  sons  and  daughters 
awakening  to  a  forgotten  fundamental  of  that 
Church’s  life,  but  backward  in  so  far  as  the  primary 
task  of  the  whole  Church  was  thereby  relegated  to 
smaller  groups  within  her.  But  that  day  had  not 
yet  come,  and  to  Charles  Grant  and  David  Brown 
it  seemed  a  natural  course  to  approach  the  Arch¬ 
bishop  of  Canterbury  and  good  King  George  the 
Third.  They  were  not  over-sanguine  as  to  official 
countenance  for  they  knew  the  age-long  character 
of  Christian  teachers  as  those  who  4  4  turn  the  world 
upside  down,”  and  measured  the  probable  opposition. 
44  The  truth,  as  we  presume  to  think,”  they  wrote, 
44  is,  that  all  objections  to  the  extension  of  Christianity 
arise  rather  from  Indisposition  to  the  thing  itself 
than  any  persuasion  of  its  Impracticability.  .  .  . 
Some  may  oppose  political  Considerations,  the 
danger  of  disturbing  the  present  Order  of  things, 
and  of  introducing  a  spirit  destructive  of  that  sub¬ 
jection  and  Subordination,  which  have  made  the 
Natives  of  Bengal  so  easy  to  govern.” 

It  was  a  true  forecast.  When  Charles  Grant  went 
home  in  1790  to  one  of  the  44  Chairs  ”  of  the  East 
India  Company’s  Directors,  he  found  an  England 
increasingly  panic-stricken  by  the  news  of  revolution 
in  France,  and  regarding  the  Church  as  an  institution 
for  the  moral  policing  of  the  nation  and  the  support 


Calcutta  of  the  Nabobs 


35 


of  the  existing  powers.  In  such  an  atmosphere  he 
made  his  main  purpose  in  life  the  enlisting  of  that 
Church  in  spiritual  service  for  India.  He  knocked 
unbidden  at  the  door  of  Lambeth  until  he  had 
persuaded  the  bland  and  very  bourgeois  prelate. 
Dr  Moore,1  to  step  into  his  purple-liveried  coach  and 
lay  before  King  George  himself  a  copy  of  the  scheme 
drawn  up  with  such  eager  hope  by  the  group  of 
friends  in  Calcutta. 

Dr  Moore  did  not  like  the  task ;  but  Charles 
Grant’s  pertinacity  and  his  own  sense  of  duty  at  last 
drove  him  to  St  James’s.  We  are  told  what  the 
King  said,  and  can  picture  the  interview  ;  the  light 
from  the  high  windows  falling  on  the  amiable  and 
full-bodied  prelate  as  he  knelt  on  the  carpet  (for 
George  III  was  a  stickler  for  this  posture)  in  his 
purple  coat,  full  wig  and  abbreviated  cassock  ;  the 
elderly,  stooping  king  with  his  good,  obstinate  face, 
a  born  lover  of  mediocrities,  44  testy  at  the  idea  of 
all  innovations  and  suspicious  of  all  innovators,”  2 
grunting  a  little  at  first,  then,  with  the  usual  oscilla¬ 
tions  of  his  body  and  precipitate,  tumbling  speech 
finding  words  to  say  that  he  44  hesitated  to  counten¬ 
ance  such  ideas  ”  owing  to  44  the  alarming  progress 
of  the  French  Revolution  and  the  proneness  of  the 
period  to  movements  subversive  of  the  established 
order  of  things  ”  ;  the  kneeling  Archbishop  hastily 
assuring  his  44  royal  patron  ”  that  an  exactly  similar 
hesitation  arose  in  his  own  mind,  then  rising  ponder¬ 
ously  from  the  floor,  only  too  thankful  to  be  quit  of 
an  ungrateful  task. 

1  The  only  gentleman  to  appear  on  the  walls  of  the  National  Portrait 
Gallery  in  a  pair  of  immaculate  grey  gloves. 

*  Thackeray,  Four  Georges. 


Henry  Martyn 


36 

Charles  Grant  had  to  report  to  David  Brown  that 
the  whole  of  officialdom,  whether  in  Parliament,  in 
Leadenhall  Street  or  in  episcopal  palaces  proved 
prosaic  and  timid.  The  Bishop  of  Llandaff  did  send 
his  copy  of  the  scheme  to  Pitt,  but  with  an  apologetic 
covering  letter  doubting  “  whether  the  present  is 
the  fittest  time  for  making  the  attempt.”  1  Leaden¬ 
hall  Street  in  a  panic  decided  to  give  no  licence  to 
any  captain  of  an  East  Indiaman  for  any  passenger 
calling  himself  a  missionary,  and  the  friends  now 
found  their  hopes  of  spiritual  service  for  India 
limited  to  the  possibility  of  sending  out  as  official 
chaplains  of  the  Company  men  with  hearts  as  high 
as  their  own  and  with  an  equal  sense  of  the  spiritual 
rights  of  every  human  soul. 

To  this  end  Charles  Grant  now  used  his  ever- 
increasing  influence  in  the  Councils  of  Leadenhall 
Street,  with  the  result  that  David  Brown  was  joined 
in  the  course  of  years  by  a  group  of  younger  men 
who  dared  to  share  his  vision.  Among  them  came 
Henry  Martyn,  that  youth  in  years  who  yet  knew 
the  abasement  and  the  rapture  of  the  saint,  and 
who  flung  at  the  feet  of  Christ  a  scholar’s  dreams 
and  the  heart  of  a  lover. 


1  Bishop  Watson’s  Anecdotes  of  his  Life,  p.  197. 


CHAPTER  II 


CORNWALL 

Not  lolling  at  ease  or  in  the  indecent  posture  of  sitting,  drawling 
out  one  word  after  another  ;  but  all  standing  before  God,  and 
praising  Him  lustily,  and  with  good  courage. — John  Wesley. 

There  is  a  fair  prospect  in  Cornwall  from  Launceston  to  the 
Land’s  End. — Wesley’s  Journal  for  August  27,  1789. 

The  curate  of  Truro  in  the  year  1747  received  a 
surprising  letter  from  the  master  of  the  Grammar 
School.  That  good  man  explained  that  his  physician 
had  ordered  him  French  wines,  but  having  failed  to 
obtain  any  in  Cornwall  that  had  not  been  smuggled 
into  the  country  he  now  desired  to  pay  the  duty 
himself  on  the  quantity  he  had  bought.  He  enclosed 
a  sum  of  money  and  requested  the  clergyman,  as  a 
well-known  and  respectable  character  above  sus¬ 
picion  by  the  excise  men,  to  hand  it  in  to  the  author¬ 
ities  as  conscience  money  from  an  anonymous  source. 
The  obliged  writer  would  in  that  way  gain  the  sat  is¬ 
faction  of  having  tried  to  keep  the  precept  of  Jesus 
about  the  things  that  should  be  rendered  to 
Caesar. 

The  Reverend  Samuel  Walker  was  a  genial  clergy¬ 
man  whose  company  was  often  sought  by  neigh¬ 
bouring  squires  4 4  to  supper  on  a  roasted  pig.”  He 
was  interested  in  character,  and  never  having  met 
on  that  smuggling  coast  with  such  sensibility  on  a 
point  of  conscience,  he  forthwith  sought  the  friend - 

37 


38 


Henry  Martyn 


ship  of  the  ingenious  and  respectable  writer.  Their 
friendship  was  momentous  in  the  life  of  Truro  ;  for 
Samuel  Walker,  level-headed,  and  well-known  in 
his  Oxford  days  for  devotion  to  logic,  now  saw  in 
the  Grammar  School  master  an  aspect  of  religion 
which  had  hitherto  escaped  him,  and  which  trans¬ 
cended  logic.  He  witnessed  in  his  friend  a  personal 
relationship  with  Christ  which  became  central  for 
the  man  who  experienced  it  and  altered  all  his 
thinking.  He  went  further  and  sought  that  vital 
experience  for  himself,  and  in  the  power  of  it  he 
transformed  Truro.  There  was  a  new  force  about 
the  man  which  drew  all  the  city  to  him,  so  that  they 
had  to  shut  up  the  cockpit  for  want  of  patrons.  Of 
a  Sunday  the  people  flocked  now  to  their  lovely 
perpendicular  parish  Church  of  St  Mary  in  such 
numbers  that  44  you  might  fire  a  cannon  down  every 
street  in  Truro  in  church  time  without  a  chance  of 
killing  a  single  human  being.” 

Samuel  Walker,  a  careful  organizer,  drew  the 
44  serious  people  ”  of  his  flock  into  what  would  now¬ 
adays  be  called  a  guild  or  fellowship  for  mutual 
stimulus  and  prayer.  He  was  untiring  in  the  pre¬ 
paration  of  courses  of  sermons  and  lectures,  and  his 
people  must  have  been  some  of  the  most  instructed 
Christians  in  the  land. 

Among  the  regular  members  of  his  44  Society  ”  was 
one  John  Martyn,  cashier  in  a  Truro  mercantile 
office  and  himself  in  a  modest  way  a  citizen  of 
substance,  with  shares  of  his  own  in  the  Wheal 
Unity  mine. 

44  Whether  at  Church  or  at  Prayer-meetings  John 
Martyn  always  attended  Mr  Sam  Walker,  the 
Curate  of  St  Mary’s,  but  at  Mr  Walker’s  decease 


Cornwall 


39 


seemed  to  prefer  the  Prayer-meeting  to  the  Church.”  1 
Be  that  as  it  may,  John  Martyn  together  with  most 
of  Samuel  Walker’s  flock  remained  in  connexion 
with  the  mother  church  throughout  those  days  of 
stir.  Samuel  Walker  before  his  death  in  1761  had 
considerable  correspondence  with  John  Wesley,  that 
most  arresting  leader  who  came  more  than  any  other 
man  of  dominant  spirit  into  immediate  contact  with 
the  masses  of  the  people. 

In  Cornwall,  as  in  all  England,  John  Wesley  was 
facing  and  taming  ill-conditioned  mobs,  and  he 
could  not  but  appreciate  the  changes  in  Truro  that 
he  found  through  Samuel  Walker’s  life-work.  He 
wrote  in  his  journal  for  August  30,  1755,  of  his  first 
contact  with  Walker’s  flock :  “As  I  was  riding 
through  Truro  one  stopped  my  horse  and  insisted 
on  my  alighting.  Presently  two  or  three  more  of 
Mr  Walker’s  society  came  in,  and  we  seemed  to 
have  been  acquainted  with  one  another  many  years.” 

The  two  men,  both  priests  of  the  English  Church, 
akin  in  spiritual  experience  and  both  preachers  now 
of  “the  new  birth,”  yet  differed  in  policy.  Walker 
dreaded  the  masses.  “  It  has  been  a  great  fault  all 
along,”  he  wrote  to  Wesley,  “to  have  made  the  low 
people  of  your  council.”  So  he  tilled  his  own  plot, 
working  no  stupendous  upheaval  but  a  gradual 
transformation  in  the  life  of  the  little  city. 

When  Walker  died,  leaving  a  sober  and  a  godly 

1  So  writes  Polwhele  in  his  Biographical  Sketches  of  Cornwall,  i.  91, 
adding :  “  It  is  much  to  be  lamented  that  Mr  Walker  should  have 
instituted  prayer  meetings.”  Mr  Polwhele  sees  so  red  if  the  word 
methodism  be  but  breathed  never  so  softly  that  his  account  of  Henry 
Martyn  is  malicious  and  unreliable.  His  scorching  Anecdotes  of 
Methodism  are  a  breath  from  the  heated  atmosphere  in  which  the 
spiritual  upheaval  of  the  evangelical  revival  took  place  in  Cornwall. 


40 


Henry  Martyn 


Truro,  John  Wesley  was  only  at  the  beginning  of 
his  series  of  marvellous  meteoric  visits  to  a  half¬ 
pagan  Cornwall,  whose  miners  and  fisher  folk  (not 
without  the  spur  of  some  local  persecution)  flocked 
to  hear  him  in  the  open  fields  and  made  his  hymns 
their  folk-songs. 

Meanwhile  “  serious  ”  John  Martyn  attended  his 
prayer-meetings,  took  to  himself  a  wife,  begat  a 
son  named  John  after  himself,  and  amused  his 
leisure  with  the  study  of  mathematics.  The  mail 
coach  for  London  would  carry  up  to  the  office  of 
The  Gentleman’s  Diary  or  Mathematical  Repository 
John  Martyn’s  solutions  to  problems  which  beginning 
airily  “  Suppose  a  fire  engine  ”  required  the  dis¬ 
covery  of  “  the  diameters  of  the  cylinder  and  pumps, 
the  height  of  the  stroke,  the  depth  of  the  engine  pit 
shaft,  and  the  quantity  of  gallons  of  water  this 
engine  will  draw  in  one  hour,  friction  excepted.” 

Young  John’s  mother  died  early,  and  John  Martyn 
the  elder  brought  home  a  new  bride  from  Ilfracombe 
to  his  house  in  Truro  near  the  Coinage  Hall.  Her 
name  was  Fleming ;  she  gave  him  a  daughter 
Laura,  then  on  February  18,  1781,  when  young  John 
was  fifteen,  a  second  little  son  whom  they  named 
Henry.  Two  years  later  another  baby,  Sally,  had 
been  born  and  the  mother  had  died,  leaving  to  her 
children  a  constitution  of  singularly  weak  resistance. 
None  of  John  Martyn’s  family  outlived  early  middle 
life. 

The  baby  Henry  opened  his  eyes  upon  a  discreet 
and  dignified  little  city  which  lived  its  life  without 
much  reference  to  the  rest  of  England.  One  of  the 
aldermen  had  never  travelled  farther  than  Bodmin, 
and  news  trickled  in  slowly  when  the  journey  by 


Cornwall 


41 


stage  to  Exeter  took  two  days.  The  gentry  of  the 
Cornish  countryside  instead  of  careering  up  to 
London  had  their  town  houses  of  sober  grey  stone 
in  Truro,  where  they  might  meet  one  another  for 
routs  and  dances  and  the  high  affairs  of  matrimony 
between  families  of  standing. 

It  was  a  trim  city,  but  even  while  the  stage  rattled 
over  the  cobbled  street  you  could  hear  if  you  listened 
the  call  of  the  gulls  among  the  shipping,  and  catch 
a  tang  of  the  salt  sea  from  the  estuary  below  the 
bridge.  Henry  Martyn’s  childhood  was  spent  in  a 
house  of  two  aspects.  Its  fairer  face  looked  down 
a  garden  to  the  little  river  just  before  it  emptied 
itself  into  the  estuary  where  the  curlews  whistle  ; 
but  the  back  of  the  house  looked  out  on  the  very 
heart  of  the  city’s  life.  Coinage  Hall  Street  was 
narrow  1  but  just  opposite  the  Marty  ns’  house  the 
buildings  gave  way  to  leave  a  little  open  square  before 
the  pillared  cloister  of  the  Coinage  Hall.  Years 
afterwards  in  dreams  in  India  Henry  would  find 
himself  walking  down  that  street,  with  the  discreet 
dwellings  of  the  citizens  (for  it  was  not  yet  the 
shopping  quarter  of  the  town)  and  brother  John’s 
house  on  the  other  side  a  few  doors  lower  than  his 
own,  and  the  cloisters  of  the  ancient  Coinage  Hall 
where  his  father,  tall  and  erect,  would  take  a  daily 
constitutional. 

Under  those  early  English  arches  Wesley  preached 
on  more  than  one  of  his  fifteen  visits  to  Truro,  with 
the  people  in  the  square  before  him,  “  enabled  to 
speak  exceeding  plain  on  ‘  Ye  are  saved  through 

1  Coinage  Hall  Street  and  Powder  Street  with  the  houses  between 
them  known  as  Middle  Row  were  thrown  into  the  preser  ,  spacious 
Boscawen  Street. 


42 


Henry  Martyn 


faith.’  ”  1  The  little  boy  in  John  Martyn’s  house 
might  still  sometimes  see  the  erect  figure  of  that 
44  human  gamecock,”  though  he  no  longer  rode  up 
the  street  on  horseback  but  stepped  out  of  a  chaise. 
4  4  His  face  was  remarkably  fine  ;  his  complexion 
fresh  to  the  last  week  of  his  life,  his  eye  quick  and 
keen  and  active.  When  you  met  him  in  the  street 
of  a  crowded  city  he  attracted  notice,  not  only  by 
his  band  and  cassock  and  his  long  hair,  white  and 
bright  as  silver,  but  by  his  pace  and  manner,  both 
indicating  that  all  his  minutes  were  numbered  and 
that  not  one  was  to  be  lost.”  2 

One  day  when  Henry  was  eight  years  old  the  street 
east  of  his  door  was  blocked  with  soldiers,  and  west¬ 
ward  with  44  numberless  tinners,  a  huge  multitude, 
nearly  starved  ”  assembled  to  demand  a  living  wage. 
Into  the  heart  of  the  throng  stepped  John  Wesley, 
and  standing  in  front  of  the  Coinage  Hall,  between 
the  two  opposing  hosts,  he  preached  his  gospel  to 
them  all  alike.  Whether  or  no  the  child  Henry 
listened  to  those  sermons  of  the  veteran,  he  was 
growing  up  in  a  world  half -moulded  by  the  Wesleys. 
Their  hymns  were  the  songs  of  his  home  to  which 
he  turned  again  and  again  for  solace  in  the  remote 
places  of  the  earth. 

There  is  no  record  of  a  beloved  nurse  or  any 
woman  who  took  the  place  of  the  lost  mother  in  the 
lives  of  John  Martyn’s  little  children.  Physically 
Henry  sounds  a  neglected  and  untempting  child 
with  hands  covered  with  warts,  and  red  eyelids 
devoid  of  eyelashes  set  in  a  plain  little  face  ;  but 
the  father  who  gave  his  own  leisure  to  those 

1  John  Wesley’s  Journal,  August  27,  1776. 

*  Southey’s  Life  of  Wesley . 


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43 


problems  in  the  Gentleman? s  Diary  saw  with  delight 
uncommon  promise  in  his  small  son. 

At  the  age  of  seven  he  entered  little  Henry  at  the 
Truro  Grammar  School  and  never  ceased  to  hold 
before  him  a  career  of  scholarship.  The  seven-year- 
old  child  trotted  across  the  square  and  dived  down 
an  opposite  lane  to  find  himself  in  a  large  low  room 
that  held  the  wonderful  new  world  of  school. 

Opposite  the  door  was  a  moulded  painting  where 
the  civic  ship  rode  yellow  on  very  blue  waves  ;  and 
below  the  ship  stood  a  throne  whereon  sat  one  of 
Truro’s  great  ones.  The  Reverend  Doctor  Cornelius 
Cardew,  a  magistrate,  a  member  of  the  corporation, 
twice  mayor  of  the  city,  and  its  schoolmaster  for 
more  than  a  generation,  looked  out  over  a  formidable 
beak  with  the  searching  quizzical  glance  of  one  who 
knew  what  was  in  boys.  He  thrashed  soundly,  he 
believed  his  boys  to  be  44  good  material,”  and  assisted 
by  only  one  usher  he  turned  out  able  men,  so  that 
in  the  distant  Universities  they  began  to  speak  with 
respect  of  the  little  western  Grammar  School. 

Down  either  side  of  the  room  as  in  the  choir  of  a 
church  were  yellow  benches  carved  with  the  names 
of  the  more  daring  scholars  ;  and  here  sat  the  sixty 
boys,  more  terrible  to  the  new  seven-year-old  than 
the  master  himself,  who  thought  him  a  babe  of 
promise.  There  they  sat,  while  bland  plaster  angels 
looked  down  from  the  green  and  white  vaulted  ceiling 
with  perfect  unconcern  on  despairing  faces  turned 
up  in  search  of  an  answer.  It  soon  became  notice¬ 
able  that  little  Henry,  though  no  one  called  him 
studious,  showed  a  happy  faculty  for  hitting  on  the 
right  answer  without  consulting  the  angels. 

The  4 4  great  boys  ”  were  wonderful.  There  was 


44 


Henry  Martyn 


Clement  Carlyon  who  was  going  to  be  a  doctor ; 
there  was  John  Kempthorne  from  Helston  whose 
father  was  a  real  live  admiral  and  fought  on  the 
high  seas  ;  and  most  wonderful  of  all  was  Humphry 
Davy  from  Penzance,  the  son  of  a  wood -carver, 
round-shouldered  and  clumsy,  a  youth  who  dipped 
his  finger  in  the  inkpot  when  he  wanted  to  blot  out 
a  mistake  in  his  exercise,  but  the  inventor  of  wonder¬ 
ful  things  to  do.  He  could  make  lamps  of  scooped- 
out  turnips,  and  tales  of  chivalry  and  gory  ballads 
and  Latin  verses  that  pleased  Dr  Cardew,  and 
he  invented  fireworks  that  really  went  off,  and 
“  thunder-powder  ”  which  exploded  on  a  stone. 
You  paid  in  pins  to  see  it. 

Only  while  these  great  ones  were  occupied  with 
their  work  and  their  plans  for  fishing,  Henry  finding 
his  level  among  the  “  lesser  boys  ”  had  his  temper 
sorely  tried.  He  was  “  a  good-humoured  plain  little 
fellow,”  Carlyon  said,  and  no  coward  ;  “  he  quailed 
before  no  man.”  But  he  was  considerably  under  the 
average  in  size  and  in  staying  power,  and  in  the  hurly- 
burly  of  the  small  boy  world  he  was  always  pushed 
to  the  wall,  when  he  broke  into  the  bitter  rages  of 
one  who  is  helpless  before  his  tormentors  yet  un¬ 
cowed.  His  puny  but  intensely  violent  rages  made 
him  a  tempting  subject  for  the  bullies  of  that  boy 
community  and  Henry’s  schooldays  would  have  been 
dark  for  him  but  for  the  searching  critical  eye  of 
the  pedagogue  in  white  bands  at  the  end  of  the 
room. 

Dr  Cardew  saw  that  Henry’s  knowledge  of  the 
classics  would  be  small  unless  he  had  protection. 
He  turned  the  whipper-snapper  over  to  the  great, 
beneficent  Kempthorne,  a  diligent  senior  boy  who 


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45 


was  later  a  clergyman  and  lord  of  a  manor  in  the 
Lizard  district.  Kempthorne  44  had  often  the  happi¬ 
ness  of  rescuing  him  from  the  grasp  of  oppressors  ” 
and  never  forgot  “the  thankful  expression  of  his 
affectionate  countenance  when  he  happened  to  be 
helped  out  of  some  difficulty.” 

Seated  near  the  big,  safe  presence  little  Martyn 
blossomed  out,  into  no  very  great  diligence  at  his 
book  it  is  true — he  seemed  in  those  days  rather  to 
absorb  the  classics  than  to  learn  them — but  into 
marked  sociability,  forgetting  his  helpless  rages  and 
becoming  one  of  the  friendliest  souls  in  the 
school. 

So  the  years  passed  and  Henry  Martyn,  still  small 
for  his  years,  was  no  longer  one  of  the  babes  but 
played  the  big  boy  to  his  own  younger  cousin 
Fortescue  Hitchins,  learned  to  shoot,  and  began  to 
look  to  the  future.  Oxford  was  the  University  of 
most  of  his  acquaintance,  for  the  Cornishmen  went 
in  numbers  to  Exeter  College,  and  when  Henry 
wTas  fifteen,  they  sent  him  up  to  compete  for  a 
scholarship  at  Corpus.  The  fact  that  in  spite  of  his 
extreme  youth  he  all  but  won  the  prize  is  a  testimony 
to  the  classical  training  of  Dr  Cardew’s  boys.  Henry 
now  sat  among  the  44  great  boys  ”  at  the  annual 
school  sermon  in  St  Mary’s  and  on  holidays  scoured 
the  country  with  a  gun. 

He  belonged  to  a  family  of  mine  agents  that 
never  intermarried  with  the  great  gentry  of  the  land, 
but  had  a  sprinkling  of  cousins  and  relatives  by 
marriage  up  and  down  the  Cornish  countryside  in 
the  ranks  of  solicitors,  clergy  or  mining  accountants. 
It  was  a  hospitable  world  and  what  with  school¬ 
fellows  and  cousins  Henry  could  ride  all  over  the 


46 


Henry  Martyn 


county  and  be  sure  of  a  welcome  at  some  town- 
place  sheltering  among  sycamores  or  in  the  one 
street  of  some  country  town.  There  grew  in  him 
a  great  love  of  the  Cornish  land  so  that  later  even 
Cambridge  seemed  44  a  dreary  scene  ”  when  he 
thought  of  misty  headlands  crowned  with  scilla  or 
sea  pink  above  the  slow  wash  of  an  opal  sea.  The 
holiday  rides  that  meant  the  most  to  him  were 
those  to  St  Hilary  Vicarage  where  a  little  church 
among  its  trees  stood  as  a  landmark  to  the  sailors 
in  Mount’s  Bay.  Here  lived  his  father’s  cousin, 
Malachy  Hitchins.  He  was  a  man  of  varied  interests, 
who  in  youth  had  helped  to  make  a  survey  of  Devon¬ 
shire,  and  now  divided  his  energies  between  his 
work  as  the  parson  of  the  villages  of  Gwinear  and 
St  Hilary  (a  preacher  of  formal  old-fashioned 
sermons)  and  his  other  task  as  assistant  to  Green¬ 
wich  Observatory  in  compiling  the  N autical  Almanac. 
He  wrote  to  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  under  the 
signature  44  ultimus  vatum  ”  (44  You  know  that 
Malachi  was  the  last  of  the  prophets  ”)  and  he 
loved  his  garden.  In  that  house  of  many  interests 
Henry  Martyn  always  found  a  welcome,  and  with 
his  cousins  Tom  and  Josepha  and  Fortescue  in 
the  old  vicarage  garden  his  happiest  hours  were 
spent. 

So  the  Cornish  land  bred  him  and  made  him  for 
ever  her  own — small,  passionate,  affectionate,  a  boy 
of  parts  and  of  imagination,  wholly  incapable  of 
passing  easily  and  light-heartedly  through  sunny 
shallows,  a  born  plunger  into  the  depths  whether 
of  good  or  of  evil. 

In  the  winter  of  1796-7,  when  the  West  Country 
was  set  buzzing  by  the  daring  of  three  French 


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47 


frigates  that  sailed  into  Ilfracombe  harbour,  and 
when  eyes  were  beginning  to  turn  to  an  officer  named 
Nelson  who  first  hoisted  his  flag  that  spring  as 
Admiral  of  the  Blue,  John  Martyn  told  his  boy  that 
he  should  leave  school  at  Midsummer  and  prepare 
for  the  larger  world  of  the  University. 


CHAPTER  III 


UNDERGRADUATE 

The  gentleman’s  Muse  wears  Methodist  shoes ;  you  may  know 
by  her  pace,  and  talk  about  grace,  that  she  and  her  bard  have 
little  regard  for  the  taste  and  fashions,  and  ruling  passions,  and 
hoidening  play  of  the  modem  day. — W.  Cowper  to  the  Rev. 
John  Newton,  June  1781. 

Unless  God  has  raised  you  up  for  this  very  thing,  you  will  be 
worn  out  by  the  opposition  of  men  and  devils. — John  Wesley  to 
Charles  Simeon,  February  1791. 

Henry  Martyn  left  the  Grammar  School  in  the 
summer  of  1797,  and  after  a  September  spent  in 
44  his  favourite  employment  of  shooting  and  .  .  . 
reading  for  the  most  part  travels  and  Lord  Chester¬ 
field’s  Letters  ”  he  went  up  to  St  John’s  College, 
Cambridge,  following  in  the  steps  of  his  beloved 
Kempthome. 

In  that  summer  when  Henry  left  the  Grammar 
School,  Jane  Austen,  all  unknown  in  a  Hampshire 
village,  was  putting  the  final  touches  to  Pride  and 
Prejudice ;  Charles  Lamb  spent  his  brief,  idyllic 
holiday  with  Coleridge  and  Sara  at  Nether  Stowey  ; 
and  Coleridge  “the  rapt  one  of  the  godlike  fore¬ 
head,”  writing  a  few  weeks  later  to  the  excellent 
Mr  Cottle,  announced  that  44  Wordsworth  and  his 
exquisite  sister  ”  were  staying  with  him. 

But  none  of  these  voices  had  stirred  the  Cambridge 
to  which  Martyn  went.  Rather  was  she  still  listen- 

48 


Undergraduate 


49 


ing  to  the  rolling  echoes  of  the  most  sonorous  of 
English  voices,  hushed  only  that  summer  with  the 
death  of  Burke. 

Fanny  Burney  said  of  Burke  that  when  he  spoke 
of  the  French  Revolution  his  face  immediately 
assumed  “  the  expression  of  a  man  who  is  going 
to  defend  himself  against  murderers.”  Just  such 
a  look  stole  into  the  faces  of  the  authorities  at 
Cambridge  when,  turning  for  a  moment  from  the 
worship  of  Newton,  they  heard  the  strange  clash 
of  revolutionary  forces  in  politics  or  literature. 
Every  year  saw  its  goodly  crop  of  orthodox  pamphlets 
against  the  writings  of  Thomas  Paine — pamphlets 
in  which  the  forces  seem  to  be  fighting  in  confusion 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  battle.  For  Tom  Paine 
with  his  harsh  earnestness,  his  daring  if  unlettered 
mind,  his  championship  of  common  folk,  and  his 
life  of  self-forgetful  adventure  seems  far  nearer 
in  spirit  to  the  Christ  whom  he  denied,  than  the 
comfortable  gentlemen  who,  with  more  dignity 
and  learning  but  with  less  of  love  and  sacrifice, 
wrote  tracts  under  such  stimulating  titles  as  A 
Layman’s  Protest  against  the  Profane  Blasphemy, 
false  Charges,  and  illiberal  Invective  of  Thomas 
Paine. 

But  Henry  Martyn,  with  four  months  yet  to  run 
before  he  was  seventeen,  was  still  outside  the  warring 
world  of  pamphlets.  There  was  Cambridge,  with 
all  her  beauty  calling  to  his  Cornish  soul ;  his  own 
college,  St  John’s,  of  whose  “  blushing  bricks  ”  old 
Fuller  writes,  not  the  least  fair,  its  three  courts 
containing  some  of  the  loveliest  Tudor  brickwork 
in  that  city  of  rare  brick.  The  music  at  King’s 
College  chapel  became  one  of  Martyn’s  dear  delights, 

D 


50 


Henry  Martyn 


and  another  he  was  to  find  in  St  John’s  walks  and 
Fellows’  Gardens,  where  yet 

.  .  .  The  elm  clumps  greatly  stand 

Still  guardians  of  that  holy  land, 

and  whence  in  Martyn ’s  day,  when  patches  of  heath 
crept  almost  to  the  gates  of  the  colleges,  one  looked 
out  over  open  champaign  country  that  grew  “  the 
best  saffron  in  Europe.” 

In  the  then  much  smaller  city  of  Cambridge  the 
eighteenth  century  was  dying  hard.  Pitt  was  a 
familiar  figure  there,  coming  twice  a  year  to  visit 
his  constituency,  and  walking  the  college  courts 
with  a  cocked  hat  and  almost  military  step.  Men 
who  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  pages  of  Fielding 
yet  walked  the  Cambridge  streets.  A  certain  well- 
known  Dr  Glynn,  Fellow  of  King’s  and  champion 
of  the  old  school  of  physicians,  took  his  walks 
abroad  in  a  scarlet  cloak,  powdered  wig  and  three- 
cornered  hat,  wielding  an  enormous  gold-headed  cane, 
while  he  ordered  blisters  for  his  patients  with  the 
unvarying  and  depressing  formula  “  emplasma  vesi- 
catorium  amplum  et  acre.” 

Cambridge  still  thought  umbrellas  effeminate,  and 
there  was  said  to  be  but  one  in  all  the  city,  kept  at 
a  shop  in  Benet  Street  and  let  out  by  the  hour. 
But  even  in  Cambridge  old  ways  were  passing,  and 
fathers  who  brought  boys  to  the  University  were 
shocked  to  see  M.A.s  in  round  hats  rather  than 
cocked  ones.  Powder  too  was  going  out  of  fashion, 
though  the  graver  seniors  still  wore  powdered  wigs 
which  went  to  a  shop  on  Saturday  to  be  curled  and 
dressed  for  Sunday,  and  Trinity  cherished  a  joyful 
story  of  the  bribing  of  the  shopman,  and  of  certain 


Undergraduate 


5i 


statues  seen  at  dawn  with  curled  wigs  on  their  heads, 
while  College  dignitaries  fumed  into  Sunday  morning 
chapel  in  their  second-best  headgear.  But  very  few 
junior  members  of  the  University  wore  powdered 
hair.  Pitt  had  done  much  to  change  the  fashion 
by  his  hair-powder  tax  to  pay  for  the  French  war, 
and  young  poetic  democrats  like  Coleridge,  Southey 
and  Savage  Landor  at  Oxford,  had  done  their  part 
by  railing  against  powder  “  as  inconsistent  with 
republican  simplicity.’ ’  It  was  necessary,  however, 
to  wear  your  hair  curled  at  Cambridge,  unless  you 
would  be  classed  among  the  “  very  rustic  and 
unfashionable.” 

Undergraduates  were  bound  to  wear  white  stock¬ 
ings,  garterless  and  reaching  to  short  knee-breeches, 
and  men  who  cared  for  appearances  donned  white 
waistcoats  and  silk  stockings  for  dinner  in  hall  at 
about  two  o’clock.  Dinner  was  followed  by  dis¬ 
putations  in  the  mathematical  school  at  three 
o’clock,  but  these  were  much  deserted  for  the  sake 
of  exercise,  and  from  three  till  half -past  five  men 
rode  or  walked.  The  richer  and  the  gayer  sort 
drove  curricles,  and  kept  race-horses  and  hunters, 
but  as  yet  the  rowing  man  was  not,  and  the  river 
was  left  to  lonely  dreamers. 

After  five-thirty  chapel,  for  missing  which  at 
St  John’s  one  was  ordered  an  imposition,  men  made 
tea  in  their  rooms,  or,  in  the  fireless  days  of  summer, 
repaired  to  coffee-houses  in  the  town.  Reading 
men  then  settled  in  for  a  long  unbroken  evening, 
and  social  spirits  sat  down  to  hazard  and  burgundy. 
Few  cared  to  disturb  the  evening  for  the  supper 
served  in  hall  at  eight  forty-five. 

Tutors  did  not  in  those  days  give  individual 


52 


« 

Henry  Martyn 


lessons,  but  lectures  on  the  set  books  for  the  degree 
examinations,  chiefly  “  treatises  by  Wood  and  Vince 
on  optics,  mechanics,  hydrostatics  and  astronomy.” 
Rapid  bookwork  was  in  great  demand,  and  King’s 
College  used  to  quote  an  answer  to  a  question  in 
a  tutor’s  lecture  :  “  Sir,  I  do  not  know  what  the 
centre  of  percussion  is,  but  I  can  work  the  problem 
upon  it.” 

Martyn’s  tutor,  Mr  Catton,  was  an  astronomer 
who  had  been  Fourth  Wrangler,  but  in  Cambridge 
opinion  should  have  been  Senior.  He  lived  for  a 
little  observatory  on  one  of  the  towers  at  St  John’s. 
When  he  came  down  from  his  observations  of  oc- 
cultations  and  contemplated  his  new  pupil,  he  found 
a  spare  boy  under  the  usual  height,  who  had  been 
taught  no  mathematics,  and  whose  idea  of  learning 
it  seemed  to  be  the  committing  of  Euclid  to  memory. 
The  astronomer  called  in  the  help  of  T.  H.  Shepherd 
a  second-year  man,  who  thus  tells  the  tale  : 

“  Mr  Catton  sent  for  me  to  his  rooms,  telling  me 
of  Martyn,  as  a  quiet  youth,  with  some  knowledge 
of  classics,  but  utterly  unable  as  it  seemed  to  make 
anything  of  even  the  First  Proposition  of  Euclid,  and 
desiring  me  to  have  him  into  my  rooms,  and  see 
what  I  could  do  for  him  in  this  matter.  Accordingly, 
we  spent  some  time  together,  but  all  my  efforts 
appeared  to  be  in  vain ;  and  Martyn,  in  sheer 
despair,  was  about  to  make  his  way  to  the  coach 
office,  and  take  his  place  the  following  day  back  to 
Truro,  his  native  town.  I  urged  him  not  to  be  so 
precipitate,  but  to  come  to  me  the  next  day,  and 
have  another  trial  with  Euclid.  After  some  time 
light  seemed  suddenly  to  flash  upon  his  mind,  with 
clear  comprehension  of  the  hitherto  dark  problem, 


Undergraduate 


53 


and  he  threw  up  his  cap  for  joy  at  his  Eureka.  The 
Second  Proposition  was  soon  taken,  and  with  perfect 
success  ;  but  in  truth  his  progress  was  such  and  so 
rapid,  that  he  distanced  everyone  in  his  year.”  1 
44  A  quiet  youth  ”  Mr  Catton  had  called  the  slight 
demure  boy,  whose  faintly  ceremonious  manners 
bore  to  the  end  of  his  life  a  trace  of  his  studies  in 
Lord  Chesterfield  before  coming  up  to  Cambridge. 
The  undergraduate  who  stopped  that  despairing  rush 
to  the  Blue  Boar  Inn  for  the  next  western  coach 
saw  that  the  “  quiet  youth  ”  was  an  impetuous  one. 
With  friends  he  was  known  also  as  a  sociable  one, 
showing  a  bright  delicacy  of  spirit  and  a  liveliness 
all  too  apt  to  pass  into  quivering  irritation.  But 
few  guessed  what  a  storm  centre  was  the  inner  life 
of  this  freshman  not  yet  seventeen.  The  Henry 
Martyn  of  those  early  Cambridge  days  had  his  being 
in  a  spiritual  whirlwind.  He  was  swept  by  great 
devastating  emotions,  longings,  exaltations,  rages, 
ambitions  ;  raised  to  an  ecstasy  by  music  ;  cast  to 
despair  by  a  slip  in  mechanics.  “  A  life  of  woe  ” 
he  called  it,  looking  back  on  those  early  storms  from 
the  comparative  security  of  twenty-three.2  In 
general  the  outward  visible  sign  of  the  inward  stress 
was  only  an  “  exquisite  irritability,”  but  now  and 
again  passion  would  master  him.  In  such  a  moment 
he  flung  a  knife  at  his  friend  Cotterill,  and  those  * 
who  saw  it  quivering  in  the  wall  knew  that  the 
inner  Martyn  was  no  44  quiet  youth.” 

The  safeguards  of  his  storm-swept  soul  lay  in  his 
always  warm  affections.  It  is  true  that  there  was 
no  mother  to  be  impressed  with  each  new  Cambridge 
phase,  to  be  teased,  and  to  be  trusted  for  unfailing 
1  Smith’s  Henry  Martyn ,  p.  19,  note.  2  Journal,  June  27th,  1804. 


54 


Henry  Martyn 


love.  But  at  Cambridge  there  was  Kempthorne, 
and  at  home  there  was  his  father.  The  big,  safe 
Kempthorne  of  the  Truro  Grammar  School  was 
still  one  of  the  great  ones  in  Martyn’s  world,  having 
become  the  Senior  Wrangler  of  1797.  From  these 
heights  he  was  a  good  friend  to  “  little  Henry 
Martyn  ”  from  his  old  school.  He  found  the  boy 
swept  away  by  the  new  delights  and  freedoms  of 
a  first  term,  and  told  him  he  must  work.  Kemp¬ 
thorne  believed  in  work.  He  had  won  his  own 
honours  by  unflagging  diligence,  covering  more 
reams  of  paper,  it  was  said,  than  any  man  in 
the  University,  as  he  worked  out  every  problem  in 
a  fair  hand,  perhaps  a  hundred  times,  till  he  had 
first  stripped  the  argument  of  each  unnecessary 
step,  and  then  reduced  the  necessary  steps  to  the 
most  lucid  economy  of  word,  line  and  letter.  Such 
diligence  he  recommended  to  Martyn. 

The  beloved  Kempthorne  had  spoken  ;  and  work 
Martyn  did,  with  a  greedy  ambition  only  stimulated 
by  his  quick  success  in  the  college  examinations, 
then  conducted  twice  a  year  by  the  Fellows  in  hall 
on  the  lecture  subjects  for  the  term.  Martyn  was 
never  for  half-measures.  The  boy  who  knew  no 
mathematics  when  he  came  up  was  soon  44  nettled 
to  the  quick  ”  when  he  took  second  instead  of  first 
place  in  his  college  examinations.  He  now  set  his 
heart  on  following  Kempthorne’s  footsteps  as  the 
Senior  Wrangler  of  his  year,  no  small  ambition  in 
a  student  whose  natural  bent  was  for  literature  and 
above  all  for  language. 

The  good  Kempthorne  dreaded  so  engrossing  a 
concern  with  examination  results  and  tried  44  to 
persuade  me  that  I  ought  to  attend  to  reading. 


Undergraduate 


55 


not  for  the  praise  of  men,  but  for  the  glory  of  God. 
This  seemed  strange  to  me,  but  reasonable .”  Reason¬ 
able,  no  doubt,  but  also  quite  uninteresting  to  the 
Martyn  of  those  days. 

His  love  for  his  father  fostered  his  ambition.  The 
gentle  and  sympathetic  old  man,  himself  a  self- 
trained  mathematician,  who  all  along  had  set  before 
Henry  a  career  of  scholarship,  was  now  waiting  as 
eagerly  as  the  boy  himself  for  tidings  of  each  ex¬ 
amination.  When  at  Christmas  1799  Henry  was 
first  in  the  college  examination  it  46  pleased  my  father 
prodigiously.” 

Only  sister  Sally,  aged  sixteen,  and  a  devout 
Christian  girl  after  the  type  of  piety  left  in  Cornwall 
by  the  Wesleys,  was  full  of  heavy  concern  for 
Henry’s  passionate  soul.  Her  overtures,  nay  her 
exhortations  on  religion  when  he  went  home  were 
44  grating  ”  to  the  ears  of  a  brother  two  years  older 
than  herself,  and  he  was  apt  to  reply  to  her  44  in 
the  harshest  language.”  (Oh  Henry  !)  The  maiden 
did  extract  a  promise,  one  day,  that  he  would  read 
the  Bible  for  himself.  44  But  on  being  settled  at 
college,  Newton  engaged  all  my  thoughts.” 1  It 
was  in  the  autumn  term  of  1799  that  Newton  so 
held  the  ascendancy,  and  it  was  at  the  Christmas 
examinations  of  the  same  term  that  Henry  obtained 
that  first  place  which  so  44  prodigiously  ”  pleased 
his  father. 

It  seems  that  Henry  did  not  that  Christmas  make 


1  Twelve  years  afterwards  on  a  ship  in  the  Indian  Ocean  Martyn 
wrote  :  “  I  bless  God  for  Sir  I.  Newton,  who,  beginning  with  the  things 
next  to  him,  and  humbly  and  quietly  moving  to  the  things  next  to  them, 
enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  knowledge  more  than  the  rest  of 
the  sons  of  men.” 


56 


Henry  Martyn 


the  tedious  journey  to  Cornwall.  The  vacation 
lasted  four  weeks  exactly,  and  the  journey  would 
cut  out  the  best  part  of  two  of  them.  Although 
there  was  daily  communication  with  London  there 
was  but  one  coach  weekly  from  Cambridge  to 
Birmingham.  This  left  Cambridge  early  on  Thursday 
morning  and  carried  western  passengers,  at  a  fare 
of  £l.  11s.  6d.,  to  Birmingham  by  Friday  evening, 
in  time  for  a  Cornishman  to  catch  the  night  coach 
to  the  west.  On  the  western  coach  there  were  two 
days  between  Birmingham  and  Exeter,  and  Henry 
had  further  yet  to  go  ;  but  even  such  speed  was  too 
much  to  hope  for  through  the  miry  lanes  of  winter. 
Henry  did  not  go  home,  but  letters  from  Truro 
told  him  that  his  father  was  “  in  great  health  and 
spirits.” 

What  then  was  my  consternation,  when  in  January 
I  received  from  my  [half]  brother  an  account  of  my 
father’s  death. 

The  affectionate  boy,  too  young  to  remember  his 
mother’s  death,  found  his  first  great  sorrow  staring 
at  him,  and  he  quite  alone,  in  what  seemed  only 
a  greater  isolation  because,  with  the  chimes  of 
Trinity  and  St  Clement’s,  there  floated  in  the  sound 
of  eager  talk  on  the  staircase,  and  shouting  and 
sudden  spurts  of  laughter  from  the  court  below. 

Alone,  Martyn  found  himself  shivering  before 
realities  he  would  gladly  have  forgotten. 

I  began  to  consider  seriously  that  invisible  world 
to  which  he  had  gone  and  to  which  I  must  one  day 
go.  As  I  had  no  taste  at  this  time  for  my  usual 
studies,  I  took  up  my  Bible  [how  often  had  the  pious 
little  Sally  in  Cornwall  prayed  for  that  moment  !] 
thinking  that  the  consideration  of  religion  was  rather 
suitable  to  this  solemn  time. 


Undergraduate 


57 


But  tormented  as  he  was  by  memories  of  his  own 
44  consummate  selfishness  ”  at  home,  as  set  against 
his  father’s  unfailing  44  patience  and  mildness,” 
Martyn  found  no  peace  of  forgetfulness  through  his 
effort  at  Bible  reading.  He  was  turning  for  escape 
to  other  books  when  Kempthorne  came  in.  That 
steady,  comfortable  friend,  the  link  between  Cam¬ 
bridge  and  the  world  of  home,  now  advised  Martyn 
44  to  make  this  time  an  occasion  for  serious  reflection.” 

Once  more  Kempthorne  had  spoken,  and  Martyn 
obediently  turned  again  to  his  Bible.  “  I  began 
with  the  Acts  as  being  the  most  amusing,  but  I 
found  myself  insensibly  led  to  enquire  more  atten¬ 
tively  into  the  doctrines  of  the  apostles.”  His 
interest  once  awakened,  he  remarked  with  approval 
how  the  notions  he  had  gathered  as  a  little  child 
from  the  Cornish  Christians  of  the  evangelical  revival 
44  corresponded  nearly  enough  ”  with  what  he  now 
read  in  the  Epistles. 

It  was  not  Martyn’s  habit  at  that  time  to  pray, 
but  prayer  seemed  a  suitable  exercise  for  one  urged 
by  Kempthorne  to  44  serious  reflection.”  He  knelt 
and  44  began  to  pray  from  a  precomposed  form,  in 
which  I  thanked  God  in  general  for  having  sent 
Christ  into  the  world.”  It  was  his  first  stumbling 
footstep  in  the  way  of  prayer,  wherein  his  spirit 
was  to  know  such  hard-won  and  such  exquisite 
delight. 

Kempthorne  not  only  advised  44  reflection  ”  but 
lent  Martyn  one  of  the  religious  classics  of  the  day 
to  guide  him  in  it.  He  chose  Doddridge’s  Rise  and 
Progress  of  Religion  in  the  Soul,  a  book  to  which 
young  William  Wilberforce  owed  the  awakening  of 
his  spirit,  and  a  book  in  which  the  wonderful  con- 


58 


Henry  Martyn 


fidence  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  the  power  of 
reason  may  be  seen  extending  even  to  her  evangelists, 
who  sought  to  save  men  by  a  logical  order  of  con¬ 
victions,  starting  in  this  case  with  the  proposition 
of  the  guilt  of  all  created  beings  before  an  offended 
Creator.  44  I  will  labour  to  fix  a  deep  and  awful 
Conviction  of  Guilt  upon  his  conscience,  and  to  strip 
him  of  his  vain  Excuses  and  his  flattering  hopes  ” 
says  Doddridge  in  the  44  general  plan  of  the  work.” 
And  he  does  labour.  Good  and  sincere  man  as  he  is, 
we  feel  with  Leslie  Stephen  that  he  is  44  lashing  a 
jaded  imagination  rather  than  overpowered  by  an 
awful  vision.”  44  I  am  sensible  I  can  do  it  no  other¬ 
wise,”  Doddridge  tells  us,  44  than  by  way  of  deep 
Humiliation.”  Henry  Martyn,  dejected  though  he 
was,  read  and  rebelled.  44  It  appeared  to  make 
religion  consist  too  much  in  humiliation  ”  he  said. 
44  I  was  not  under  great  terror  of  future  punishment  ” 
he  tells  his  sister ;  and  moderns  feel  a  sneaking 
gladness  that  he  would  not  be  terrified  into  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

But  in  despite  of  too  logical  44  plans  of  salvation  ” 
the  vision  of  a  Living  Person  was  slowly  stealing 
into  Martyn’s  heart.  44 1  am  brought  to  a  sense  of 
things  gradually  ”  he  wrote.  He  still  44  read  the 
Bible  unenlightened  ”  but  having  worked  through 
the  Acts  and  the  Epistles  he  now  turned  to  the 
Gospels.  44  Soon  I  began  to  attend  more  diligently 
to  the  words  of  our  Saviour  in  the  New  Testament, 
and  to  devour  them  with  delight.”  Then  when  the 
same  voice  made  44  offers  of  mercy  and  forgiveness  ” 
Martyn’s  heart  responded  and  he  found  himself,  he 
knew  not  how,  praying  44  with  eagerness  and  hope.” 
His  spirit  had  discovered  not  a  doctrine  but  a 


59 


Undergraduate 

Person.  None  was  to  know  more  than  he  of  the 
humiliation  that  marks  the  saint,  but  he  learnt  it, 
not  under  Doddridge’s  guidance  by  the  contempla¬ 
tion  of  his  guilty  state,  but  under  Other  guidance 
when  he  came  to  see  44  the  light  of  the  knowledge 
of  the  glory  of  God,  in  the  Face  of  Jesus  Christ.” 

This  was  a  conversion.  Four  years  later  he  could 
write,  44  The  work  is  real.  I  can  no  more  doubt  it 
than  I  can  my  own  existence.  The  whole  current 
of  my  desires  is  altered,  I  am  walking  quite  another 
way,  though  I  am  incessantly  stumbling  in  that 
way.” 

Henceforth  we  know  the  same  Martyn,  but  with 
a  liberating  change  :  a  Martyn  with  emotions  still 
intense,  perhaps  even  intensified  ;  all  his  life  more 
quickly  moved  than  most  men  whether  to  delight 
or  tears  ;  his  heart  raised  to  rapture  by  music  or 
by  quiet  scenery  ;  while,  as  the  price  of  ecstasies 
too  intense  for  his  physical  frame,  he  must  know  a 
fastidiousness  and  quivering  irritation  almost  in¬ 
conceivable  to  men  of  firmer  build.  But  no  longer 
was  this  Martyn  to  be  the  slave  of  his  own  storms. 
In  finding  a  Master  he  was  set  free.  No  more  pent 
up  in  himself,  his  whole  spiritual  being  found  a 
great  escape  through  contact  with  the  infinite  life 
of  his  Lord.  That  vital  contact  now  begun  was 
maintained,  as  it  seemed  to  himself,  precariously 
enough  and  with  difficulty  at  first,  through  what 
he  felt  to  be  a  surprising  44  reluctance  to  prayer, 
unwillingness  to  come  to  God  the  fountain  of  all 
good.”  But  for  all  that,  the  contact  was  maintained 
and  cultivated,  growing  daily  more  sure,  until  he 
became  at  home  in  the  new  realm  that  he  now 
entered,  44  tasting  the  powers  of  the  age  to  come,” 


6o 


Henry  Martyn 


and  growing  into  gradual  harmony  with  that  44  un¬ 
disturbed  song  of  pure  concent  ”  whose  notes  wTere 
for  the  first  time  stealing  into  his  ears  as  he  read 
44  the  words  of  our  Saviour  in  the  New  Testament  ” 
in  January  1800. 

Martyn  was  far  too  rapturous  a  being  ever  to 
reach  a  stoic  composure,  but  he  came  at  last  very 
near  to  the  quite  different  composure  of  the  charity 
that  44  beareth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth 
all  things,”  and  those  who  read  his  story  see  that 
most  sensitive  and  irritable  of  beings  grow  to  such 
indomitable  patience  that  a  friend,  in  writing  of  a 
maddening  character,  could  say,  “ 4  There  is  little 
hope  that  any  person  but  Martyn  could  bear  with 
him.”  1 

But  the  life  of  inner  discipleship,  then  as  ever, 
had  to  find  expression  in  outward  relationships,  and 
Henry  Martyn  made  new  friendships  both  at  Cam¬ 
bridge  and  at  home.  The  little  religious  sister  in 
Cornwall,  now  recognized  as  a  comrade  in  experience, 
received,  as  she  also  delightedly  wrote,  long  letters 
on  their  common  experience  in  Christ.  The  brother 
and  sister  used,  naturally  enough,  the  vocabulary 
of  the  evangelical  revival  under  the  Wesleys,  which 
had  created  the  religious  atmosphere  that  Sally 
breathed.  For  them,  any  44  means  of  grace  ”  from 
the  Holy  Communion  to  personal  study  of  the 
Scriptures  was  44  a  sacred  ordinance,”  a  group 
meeting  for  Bible  study  was  44  a  Society  ”  2  and 

1  D.  Corrie  to  D.  Brown,  October  4th,  1810. 

2  John  Wesley’s  Journal  for  May  1st,  1738,  after  his  visit  to  the 
Moravians,  tells  of  the  first  meeting  of  such  a  “  society  ”  in  Fetter  Lane. 
It  wa a  to  meet  weekly  in  groups  of  not  more  than  ten  for  confession, 
spiritual  conference  and  mutual  prayer.  This  was  the  forerunner  of 
the  Wesleyan  Class  Meeting.  Charles  Simeon,  in  order  to  know  his 


Undergraduate 


united  prayer  was  “engaging  in  a  social  exercise,” 
while  private  devotions  were  “  secret  duties  ”  as 
against  Church  services  or  “  public  duties.”  The  evil 
which  distressed  them  in  their  inner  life  they 
commonly  referred  to  as  their  “  corruption,”  over 
which  indeed  they  were  in  deep  concern  as  they 
strove  by  “a  realizing  faith”  to  reach  a  “happy 
frame”  of  “breathings  after  God”  and  a  “lively 
view  of  eternal  things.”  The  vocabulary  may  be 
studied  in  the  hymns  and  religious  diaries  of  that 
day.  Its  historical  lineage  is  interesting,  many  of 
the  phrases  leading  one  back  to  sixteenth  century 
divines  and  worthies,  or  to  the  Moravian  brethren 
and  the  German  pietists.  To-day  when  it  is  almost 
obsolete  as  an  expression  of  life  it  sounds  stilted 
enough,  but  for  Martyn  it  was  pulsing  with  the 
unconquerable  vitality  of 

The  children  of  the  Second  Birth 

Whom  the  world  cannot  tame . 

Almost  the  same  phraseology  was  in  use  among 
the  small  group  of  religious  men  at  Cambridge, 
with  whom  Henry  Martyn  was  now  to  ally  himself. 
The  usual  nickname  for  those  in  the  University 
who  took  Christian  discipleship  with  any  seriousness 
was  still  “  Methodist,”  a  tribute  to  the  amazing 
influence  of  John  Wesley’s  work.  In  Martyn’s  time 
a  few  such  “  Methodist  ”  undergraduates  were  found 
at  Queens’  under  the  Mastership  of  Isaac  Milner, 
genial  and  full-bodied,  “  a  man  of  boundless  good 
will  to  his  fellow  creatures  at  every  period  of  life, 


flock  more  individually,  started  something  between  a  cottage  meeting 
and  a  Bible  class  which  he  also  called  “a  society.”  He  had  six 
‘  societies  ”  meeting  regularly,  each  with  about  20  members. 


62 


Henry  Martyn 


provided  that  they  were  not  Jacobins  or  sceptics,”  1 
and  the  most  brilliant  talker  in  the  University. 
44  He  was  equally  at  home  on  a  steeplechase  and  on 
final  perseverance  ;  and  explained  with  the  same 
confidence  the  economy  of  an  ant-hill  and  the  policy 
of  the  Nizam.”  2  His  lectures  on  optics,  illustrated 
both  by  his  humour  and  by  44  experiments  ”  of  the 
nature  of  44  exhibitions  of  the  magic  lanthorn,”  were 
among  the  joys  of  undergraduate  life. 

Another  group  of  religious  men  belonged  to 
Magdalene  where  the  Master  wailed  that  there 
must  be  44  something  in  the  air  of  Magdalene  that 
makes  men  Methodists.  We  have  elected  fellows 
.  .  .  whom  we  considered  to  be  most  anti- 

Methodist  ical  but  they  all  become  Methodists.” 
The  central  personality  here  was  Professor  Farish, 
a  chemist  of  distinction  and  a  man  of  charm,  later 
to  become  well  known  to  Martyn. 

But  the  strongest  religious  influence  in  the  Uni¬ 
versity,  and  as  some  said  in  all  England,  was  wielded 
by  a  Fellow  of  King’s,  whose  erect  soldierly  figure 
might  any  day  be  seen  riding  to  the  Gogmagog 
Hills  on  one  of  the  best-bred  horses  in  the  neighbour¬ 
hood.  Undergraduates  who  a  few  decades  later 
would  be  designated  by  the  first  syllable  of  the 
word  4  4  pious  ”  then  had  the  first  syllable  of  the 
word  44  Simeon  ”  shouted  under  their  windows  at 
night,  in  compliment  to  the  Reverend  Charles 
Simeon  of  King’s  College,  one  of  the  most  typically 
English  saints  that  ever  lived,  and  perhaps  the  most 
intrepid  and  arresting  personality  of  Martyn’s 
Cambridge. 

1  Trevelyan,  Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Macavlay,  p.  40. 

•  Stephen,  Essays  in  Ecclesiastical  Biography. 


Undergraduate 


63 


Twenty  years  before  Martyn,  Charles  Simeon  had 
come  up  to  King’s  College  from  Eton,  a  most  active, 
vehement  and  vivid  black-eyed  boy,  given  to  domin¬ 
ating  the  circle  in  which  he  found  himself.  He 
combined  an  intense  interest  in  clothes,  then  largely 
expressed  in  shoe-buckles  and  silk  waistcoats,  with 
a  yet  intenser  interest  in  horse-flesh,  that  abode 
with  him  to  the  day  of  his  death.  Under  the  noise 
of  his  vehement  talk,  Charles  Simeon  had  in  him  an 
unguessed  depth  of  reverence,  and  when  he  found, 
three  days  after  his  arrival,  that  undergraduates 
were,  by  a  now  vanished  college  rule,  compelled  to 
take  the  Sacrament  at  half-term  and  again  on  Easter 
Day,  his  soul  revolted  from  a  formal  and  official 
entrance  to  the  Holy  of  holies.  He  set  himself  to 
preparation,  reading  Law’s  Whole  Duty  of  Man, 
“the  only  religious  book  I  had  ever  heard  of.” 
For  three  months  his  discomfort  only  grew,  until 
in  Passion  Week  when  he  was  in  “  distress  of  soul,” 
light  came  like  a  flash  to  his  always  vivid  mind. 
“  Has  God  provided  an  Offering  for  me,  that  I  may 
lay  my  sins  on  His  head  ?  Then  God  willing,  I 
will  not  bear  them  on  my  own  soul  one  moment 
longer.”  To  Simeon  as  later  to  Martyn  came  the 
revelation  of  a  Person.  On  Easter  Sunday  he 
awck<  with  the  words  “  Jesus  Christ  is  risen  to-day, 
Halk  lujah  !  ”  upon  his  lips  and  in  his  heart,  and 
went  to  church  in  a  passion  of  glad  conviction. 
After  the  service  some  morsels  of  the  Consecrated 
Bread  remained,  and  the  clergyman  handed  them 
to  Simeon  and  some  others.  Simeon,  his  heart 
still  at  worship,  covered  his  face  in  prayer  while 
he  ate,  then  looked  up  to  find  that,  inconceiv¬ 
able  as  it  may  now  seem,  the  clergyman  was 


64 


Henry  Martyn 


smiling  at  so  rare  and  so  unnecessary  a  display  of 
“  enthusiasm.” 

From  that  day  the  taint  of  “  enthusiasm,”  so 
much  dreaded  in  the  eighteenth  century,  made 
Simeon  a  marked  man  in  the  University  and  a  con¬ 
siderable  anxiety  to  his  family,  his  brother  writing 
plaintively  enough  “  I  trust  that  in  the  common 
course  of  things  your  zeal  will  slacken  a  little.” 
Simeon  suffered  under  his  isolation,  for  he  was 
warm-hearted  ;  but  there  was  also  that  in  him  which 
leapt  to  the  call  of  battle. 

Henceforth  there  were  two  sides  to  Charles  Simeon. 
On  one  side  he  lived,  almost  unhelped  by  men,  a 
life  of  very  simple  discipleship,  of  which  we  learn  by 
stray  phrases  that  reveal  the  man  ;  as  when  he 
breaks  out  wistfully,  4  4  Oh  that  Jesus  were  to  be  at 
the  wedding,  with  what  joy  I  should  go  then  ”  ; 
or  as  when  a  friend,  failing  to  make  him  hear,  burst 
into  his  room  to  find  that  active,  dominating  person 
lost  in  contemplation  and  murmuring  again  and 
again  44  Glory,  glory,  glory  to  the  Son  of  God.” 
This  little-known  side  of  his  life  he  maintained 
by  rising  at  four,  and  spending  the  hours  till  break¬ 
fast  in  meditation  with  his  44  little  old  quarto  Bible.” 

He  had  another  and  a  very  different  side  44  to  face 
the  world  with  ”  as  he  proceeded  magnificently  to 
defy  the  scorn  of  Cambridge.  Shortly  after  his 
ordination  to  a  fellowship  of  King’s  in  1782  he 
accepted,  against  a  fury  of  local  opposition,  a  living 
of  the  value  of  £40  a  year,  in  order  that  Trinity 
Church  might  give  him  a  pulpit  from  which  to 
speak  his  message  to  the  city.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  Simeon  in  all  his  long  life  ever  knew  what 
it  was  to  speak  in  an  uncertain  tone  ;  and  in  his 


U ndergradtiate 


65 


pulpit,  preaching,  as  he  would  have  said,  to  perishing 
souls  of  the  truths  of  eternity  and  the  deepest  con¬ 
victions  of  his  own  heart,  his  vehement  earnestness 
of  voice  and  gesture  struck  Cambridge  as  “  lively  ” 
but  “  grotesque.”  “  Oh,  Mamma,  what  is  the  gentle¬ 
man  in  a  passion  about  ?  ”  cried  a  little  girl  who 
heard  such  preaching  for  the  first  time.  Mamma 
might  very  properly  have  replied  that  Simeon  was 
in  a  passion,  and  never  out  of  it,  for  the  neglected 
honour  of  his  Lord. 

It  went  the  round  that  this  Fellow  of  King’s 
(like  the  members  of  the  Holy  Club  at  Oxford  half 
a  century  before)  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  poor 
felons  in  the  jail  and  of  poking  into  cottages  in 
insalubrious  lanes.  But  the  limit  was  reached  when 
the  respectability  of  Trinity  Church  was  invaded  by 
the  great  unwashed.  The  same  treatment  was 
meted  out  to  Simeon  as  had  been  given  to  Romaine 
when  his  preaching  drew  “  the  unsavoury  multitude  ” 
into  the  sacred  precincts  of  St  George’s,  Hanover 
Square.  The  respectable  pew-holders  locked  up 
their  square  family  pews  and  sat  in  satisfied  pro¬ 
priety  at  home,  leaving  Simeon  to  preach  to  such 
of  the  peasantry  of  the  neighbouring  villages  (for 
these  tramped  miles  to  hear  him)  and  Cambridge 
lanes  as  could  stand  in  the  aisles.  He  placed  benches 
in  the  aisles,  but  the  churchwardens,  with  all  the 
joy  of  battle,  threw  them  out  into  the  churchyard. 
He  started  an  evening  service,  a  shocking  innovation 
in  days  when  evensong  was  generally  droned  through 
in  the  sleepiest  part  of  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the 
cost  of  candles  saved. 

Such  a  “  Methodist  ”  with  such  outrageous 
practices  was  fair  game  for  undergraduate  wit,  and 

x 


66 


Henry  Martyn 


it  became  a  regular  Sunday  “  rag  ”  to  bait  Simeon. 
You  could  stand  outside  and  throw  pebbles  at  the 
windows  while  you  waited  to  harry  the  congregation 
on  their  way  out ;  or  you  could  go  inside  and  stand 
upon  the  seats  or  stroll  about  the  aisles,  with  suit¬ 
able  cat-calls  to  a  friend  in  another  part  of  the 
church,  and  witty  comments  on  all  that  Simeon  did. 
“  Why,  how  long  the  old  hypocrite  goes  on  a- 
praying  !  ”  you  felt  bound  to  say,  as  he  bowed  his 
head  before  the  sermon  which  was  to  be  for  you  an 
opportunity  of  aping  his  grotesque  and  passionate 
gesture.  The  sermon  was  the  great  encounter,  and 
Simeon  knew  it,  and  knew  too  that  he  could  expect 
no  support  from  University  authorities.  He  had 
only  his  own  dominating  personality  and  his  terrible 
eye  with  which  to  oppose  the  rowdies.  And  Sunday 
after  Sunday  the  miracle  happened,  and  the  man 
with  his  overwhelming  earnestness  imposed  silence 
so  long  as  he  chose  to  preach,  the  hurly-burly 
breaking  out  again  when  he  left  the  pulpit  and  they 
were  no  longer  under  the  domination  of  that  flashing 
eye.  As  an  old  man  he  used  to  say  that  he  had 
never  met  but  two  gownsmen  who  “  ever  were 
daring  enough  to  meet  my  eye.” 

But  Simeon  did  more  than  quell  men  to  silence  ; 
week  after  week  he  drove  the  ploughshare  of  convic¬ 
tion  deep  into  some  soul  to  whom  he  became  ever 
afterwards  a  father  in  God,  a  robust  and  fearless 
leader. 

In  Martyn’s  days  he  was  midway  in  his  career, 
still  doubtful  whether  another  Fellow  would  be  seen 
to  walk  across  the  grass  of  the  college  court  with  him  ; 
his  disciples  still  running  the  gauntlet  of  University 
scorn,  but  forming  now  a  perceptible  group,  in 


Undergraduate 


67 


which  44  Father  Simeon  ”  held  his  half-tender  and 
half-autocratic  sway.  When  Henry  Martyn  became 
a  regular  attendant  at  Trinity  in  1799,  Simeon  had 
already  started  tea-drinkings,  later  to  become  his 
famous  44  conversation  parties  ”  for  gownsmen,  at 
which,  after  welcoming  his  guests  with  the  polish 
and  the  dignity  of  a  courtier,  he  sat  erect  in  a  high 
chair,  by  a  scientifically-mended  fire  (a  special 
crotchet)  and  dealt  out  the  counsel  of  a  tried  and 
courageous  Christian,  while  two  servants  handed 
tea  to  the  slightly  embarrassed  undergraduates. 

This  was  Martyn’s  leader  in  the  new  path  ;  a  man 
always  vivid,  often  quaintly  humorous,  generally 
domineering,  but  with  touching  gentlenesses  ;  a 
man  of  whom  the  landlady  of  the  44  Eagle  and 
Child  ”  was  heard  to  remark  confidentially  in  the 
London  coach,  44  He  looks  proud,  he  walks  proud, 
he  talks  proud,  and  he  is  proud,”  but  a  man  in  whom 
his  relationship  to  Christ  worked  wonderful  flashes 
of  humility  :  as  when  he  wrote  in  apology  to  a 
groom  whom  he  had  rated  for  putting  the  wrong 
bridle  on  his  horse,  44 1  earnestly  beg  his  pardon,  and 
am  sorry  for  what  I  said  to  him  ”  :  or  as  when, 
after  snapping  at  an  undergraduate  for  trampling 
the  yellow  gravel  of  King’s  College  court  into  the 
carpet  of  his  bachelor  domain,  he  would  return  after 
a  few  moments  to  say,  44  My  brother,  I  was  annoyed 
and  spoke  too  strongly,  but  [and  how  human  is  that 
but !]  I  do  love  a  clean  carpet.” 

The  literary  sense  was  not  strong  in  Simeon,  who 
was  rather  a  born  organizer.  He  had  none  of 
Martyn’s  love  for  pure  scholarship,  but  in  him 
common  sense  was  carried  almost  to  the  point  of 
genius,  and  his  counsel  to  the  delicately  sensitive 


68 


Henry  Martyn 


Martyn  “  without  one  torpid  nerve  about  him,” 
was  nearly  always  robust.  A  specimen  of  the 
guidance  Martyn  had  is  found  in  Simeon’s  treatment 
of  what  was  still  the  favourite  subject  for  theological 
worry — the  Arminian  and  Calvinistic  controversy. 
A  letter  written  long  after  Martyn  had  left  Cambridge 
may  yet  serve  to  show  us  Simeon’s  habitual  and 
most  independent  treatment  of  such  questions  : 

The  truth  is  not  in  the  middle,  and  not  in  one 
extreme  but  in  both  extremes.  .  .  .  Here  are  two 
extremes,  Calvinism  and  Arminianism  (for  you  need 
not  to  be  told  how  long  Calvin  and  Arminius  lived 
before  St  Paul).  “How  do  you  move  in  reference  to 
these,  Paul  ?  In  a  golden  mean  ?  ”  “  No  ” — “  To  one 

extreme?”  “No.”  “How then?”  “ To  both  extremes ; 
to-day  I  am  a  strong  Calvinist,  to-morrow  a  strong 
Arminian” — “Well,  well,  Paul,  I  see  thou  art  beside 
thyself ;  go  to  Aristotle  and  learn  the  golden  mean.” 

But  I  am  unfortunate  ;  I  formerly  read  Aristotle, 
and  liked  him  very  much  ;  I  have  since  read  Paul 
and  caught  some  of  his  strange  notions,  oscillating 
(not  vacillating)  from  pole  to  pole.  Sometimes  I 
am  a  high  Calvinist,  at  other  times  a  low  Arminian, 
so  that  if  extremes  will  please  you,  I  am  your  man  ; 
only  remember,  it  is  not  one  extreme  that  we  are  to 
go  to,  but  both  extremes. 

...  We  shall  be  ready  (in  the  estimation  of  the 
world,  and  of  moderate  Christians)  to  go  to  Bedlam 
together.1 

In  lesser  questions  his  44  young  friends  ”  found 
his  advice  both  fatherly  and  robust.  He  would 
have  them  work  ;  but  44  remember,”  said  he,  44  your 
success  in  the  Senate  House  depends  much  on  the 
care  you  take  of  the  three-mile  stone  out  of  Cam¬ 
bridge.”  Most  sound  counsel  for  one  of  Martyn’s 
build  who  in  1799  and  1800  was  all  but  a  recluse, 

1  H.  C.  G.  Moule,  Charles  Simeon,  p.  97. 


Undergraduate 


69 


working  with  the  eagerness  that  gained  for  him  the 
title  of  “the  man  who  never  lost  an  hour”;  yet 
working  without  the  old  frenzy,  since  he  knew 
now  a  deeper  interest  than  his  work,  and  was  almost 
jealous  of  the  necessary  absorption  in  reading. 
“  The  labourer  as  he  drives  on  his  plough,”  he  wrote 
to  Sally,  “  and  the  weaver  as  he  works  at  his  loom, 
may  have  his  thoughts  entirely  disengaged  from 
his  work,  and  may  think  with  advantage  upon  any 
religious  subject.  But  the  nature  of  our  studies 
requires  such  a  deep  abstraction  of  the  mind  from 
all  other  things,  as  to  render  it  completely  incapable 
of  anything  else,  and  that  during  many  hours  of 
the  day.” 

The  examination  for  degrees  took  place  in  January 
1801.  Henry  knew  that,  having  no  advantage  of 
family  or  wealth,  his  social  prospects,  and  in  part 
those  of  his  sisters  also,  depended  upon  the  honours 
that  he  took.  It  was  true  that  he  was  now  easily 
first  in  his  college  examinations ;  but  the  year 
was  said  to  be  an  unusually  brilliant  one  in  the 
University.  Among  leading  names  from  other 
colleges  were  those  of  Charles  and  Robert  Grant  of 
Trinity,  the  two  sons  of  Charles  Grant  of  Calcutta, 
who  had  learnt  their  first  Latin  from  the  Reverend 
David  Brown. 

The  examination  of  those  days  began  before  break¬ 
fast  on  a  January  morning,  a  moment  at  which 
spirits  are  apt  to  be  at  a  low  ebb.  As  Martyn  passed 
under  the  fluted  columns  of  the  Senate  House 
portico,  there  flashed  into  his  agitated  mind  the 
text  of  a  sermon  heard  not  long  ago — “  Seekest  thou 
great  things  for  thyself  ?  Seek  them  not,  saith  the 
Lord.”  Steadied,  as  an  over-excited  child  by  his 


7° 


Henry  Martyn 


father’s  voice,  he  went  in  and  wrote  with  a  mind 
“  composed  and  tranquillized,”  and  retained  his 
calm  through  the  three  long  mornings  of  the  viva 
voce ,  when  the  honours  men  sat  round  a  table  in 
the  ice-cold  Senate  House  with  an  examiner  at  their 
head,  who  propounded  a  problem  which  all  worked 
at  topmost  speed.  When  the  first  man  had  handed 
in  his  solution  another  problem  was  read  out,  with 
the  result  that  the  slower  men  missed  many  of  the 
questions.  At  night  in  the  rooms  of  one  of  the 
moderators  more  difficult  work  was  set,  in  which 
the  race  for  speed  was  not  so  great,  and  men  had  a 
choice  of  problems  offered  them. 

The  results  were  published  on  the  fourth  day  ; 
and,  at  not  quite  twenty  years  of  age,  Henry  Martyn 
found  that  his  darling  ambition  had  been  realized, 
and  he  was  Senior  Wrangler.  His  first  sensation 
was  keen  disappointment.  His  father  was  not  there 
to  glory  in  the  news.  “  I  obtained  my  highest 
wishes,”  he  says,  “  but  was  surprised  to  find  that  I 
had  grasped  a  shadow.”  Be  that  as  it  may  he  did 
later  find  much  seductive  pleasure  in  the  sense  of 
distinction,  and  in  the  subtle  tone  of  regard  that 
crept  into  the  voices  of  University  officials  when 
they  talked  to  one  at  once  so  young  and  so  dis¬ 
tinguished. 

Cambridge  had  given  to  her  young  son  her  highest 
honours,  but  at  the  cost  of  a  diligence  that  cut  him 
off  from  many  of  the  richer  interests  of  life.  She 
had  given  him  a  formal  intellectual  training  ;  she 
had  yet  in  store  for  him  that  training  in  the  humani¬ 
ties  which  only  comes  of  friendship  and  of  fruitful 
meditation. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FELLOW  OF  ST  JOHN’S 

I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  him,  have  studied  his  sentiments  and 
heard  his  opinion  on  subjects  of  literature  and  taste  ;  and  upon 
the  whole,  I  venture  to  pronounce  that  his  mind  is  well  informed, 
his  enjoyment  of  books  exceedingly  great,  his  imagination  lively, 
his  observations  just  and  correct,  and  his  taste  delicate  and  pure. 
.  .  .  His  person  can  hardly  be  called  handsome,  till  the  expression 
of  his  eyes,  which  are  uncommonly  good,  and  the  general  sweet¬ 
ness  of  his  countenance,  is  perceived.  At  present  I  know  him  so 
well  that  I  think  him  really  handsome  ;  or  at  least  almost  so. — 
Jane  Austen,  Sense  and  Sensibility. 

Oh  dear  Sir,  do  not  think  it  enough  to  live  at  the  rate  of  common 
Christians.  .  .  .  And  oh,  dear  Sir,  let  me  beseech  you  frequently 
to  attend  to  the  great  and  precious  duties  of  secret  fasting  and 
prayer. — Letter  of  David  Brainerd. 

The  ordeal  of  the  degree  examination  was  followed 
two  months  later  by  what  was  then  considered  the 
still  more  searching  test  of  the  examination  for  the 
Smith’s  Prizes,  in  which  less  was  required  of  the 
reproduction  of  book-work,  and  more  of  mathe¬ 
matical  thought.  Martyn  held  his  own  and  went 
home  at  Easter  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  his 
old  schoolmaster  and  all  the  Cornish  cousinry,  as 
Senior  Wrangler  and  first  Smith’s  Prizeman  of  a 
brilliant  year. 

Only  Sally  was  dissatisfied  and  told  him  so. 
Cambridge  meant  little  to  her,  and  her  brother’s 
religion  meant  much  ;  in  this  she  was  not  content 
with  his  rate  of  progress. 


71 


72 


Henry  Martyn 


He  returned  to  Cambridge  to  take  pupils  and 
prepare  for  the  examination  for  a  fellowship  that 
was  an  almost  certain  reward  of  such  distinctions 
as  his. 

This  second  stage  of  Martyn’s  Cambridge  life  was 
less  crowded  with  relentless  tasks  and  richer  in 
friendship  and  in  growth  than  his  undergraduate 
days.  Martyn  was  never  by  nature  a  mathematician 
only.  A  friend  writes  : 1  “  His  mathematical  acqui¬ 
sitions  clearly  left  him  without  a  rival  of  his  own  age  : 
and  yet,  to  have  known  only  the  employment  of 
his  more  free  and  unfettered  moments  would  have 
led  to  the  conclusion  that  poetry  and  the  classics 
were  his  predominant  passions.” 

We  have  no  record  of  what  was  the  poetry  on 
which  he  slaked  his  thirst  for  beauty  until  a  few  years 
later,  when  we  find  him  steeped  in  the  older 
traditions.  For  with  all  his  transcendent  abilities, 
Martyn  was  no  originator  in  literary  thought.  The 
intellectual  realm  in  which  he  was  to  come  into  his 
own  was  the  then  little  explored  field  of  the  com¬ 
parative  philology  of  Eastern  languages.  In  regard 
to  English  literature  he  was  content  to  be  a  finely 
appreciative  follower  of  the  taste  of  his  own  day, 
sometimes  too  of  the  day  just  before  his,  for  Blair’s 
Grave  gave  him  “  much  pleasure.”  He  was  at 
Cambridge  in  those  days  just  before  the  “  Renascence 
of  Wonder  ”  when  men  had  on  them  a  great  industry 
for  compilations,  and  were  busy  over  encyclopaedias,2 
periodicals  full  of  facts,  and  public  lectures  packed 
with  information.  But  they  had  also  a  fresh  and 
genuine  interest  in  landscapes  of  the  common 

1  Archdeacon  C.  J.  Home  quoted  by  Sargent,  p.  439. 

*  The  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  was  first  published  in  1771. 


Fellow  of  St  Johns 


73 


countryside,  and  Marianne  Dashwood  must  possess 
44  every  book  that  tells  her  how  to  admire  an  old, 
twisted  tree.” 

This  taste,  so  largely  due  to  the  loving  subtlety 
with  which  Cowper  drew  his  bird-haunted  shrub¬ 
beries  and  placid  reaches  of  the  Ouse,  was  one  of 
the  deepest  in  Martyn’s  nature  ;  for  he,  like  the 
poet  of  his  own  religious  school,  knew  the  relief  of 
escape  from  his  own  too  eager  emotions  to  quiet 
fields  and  waters. 

The  recognized  versifier  of  the  clan  of  cousins 
and  cousinly  friends  in  Cornwall  was  Fortescue 
Hitchins,1  a  boy  three  years  younger  than 
Martyn,  whose  home  with  his  grandfather,  the  Rev. 
Malachy  Hitchins  of  Marazion,  had  been  one  of  the 
favourite  haunts  of  Henry’s  boyhood.  Fortescue 
Hitchins  wrote  and  published  by  subscription 
verses  full  of  local  landscapes,  Cornish  shores  and 
sea-birds. 


My  steps  the  barren  sands 
(Though  barren  not  unpleasing)  oft  invite , 

Where  not  a  trace  is  seen ,  save  the  light  print 
Of  sea-bird  .  .  . 

...  So  smooth  the  sea , 

It  seems  a  mirror  of  ethereal  blue , 

Dappled  with  varied  plumage.  O'er  its  plain 
Swift  wheels  the  timid  sanderling ,  gregarious , 
Nimble ,  alert y  and  mingling  on  the  shore 
With  dotterell  and  plover. 

For  this  type  of  quiet  verse-making  Martyn’s 
appetite  was  keen.  44  Some  of  Fortescue’s  poems,” 
he  says,  44  set  me  into  a  pensive  meditation  on  the 
happy  mornings  I  had  passed  near  Kea.”  He  would 

1  Later  a  solicitor  at  St  Ives  and  compiler  of  a  History  of  Cornwall. 


74 


Henry  Martyn 


often  rest  his  own  mind  by  composing  verses  as  he 
walked  into  the  country  round  Cambridge. 

Always,  too,  there  were  the  immortals  and  he  tells 
us  that  he  read  now  44  some  choruses  of  Sophocles,” 
or  again,  44  Euripides  till  very  late,”  and  confesses 
that  just  before  he  left  for  India  he  allowed  himself 
an  ^Eschylus  and  a  Pindar,  not  without  scruples  as 
to  whether  he  should  afford  the  price. 

There  was  more  space  now  in  Martyn’s  Cambridge 
life  for  friendship,  and  Charles  Simeon  drew  him 
into  closer  intimacy  and  would  often  ask  him  to  drink 
tea  when  they  would  sit  together,  Simeon  erect  in 
his  high  chair  under  that  44  beautiful  old  painting 
of  the  Crucifixion  ”  which  he  hoped  they  would 
hang  before  him  on  his  deathbed,  and  quietly 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  as  was  his  way  in 
moments  of  placid  enjoyment,  while  he  talked  with 
one  so  eagerly  and  so  respectfully  responsive. 

To  Simeon  Martyn  owed  many  of  the  friendships 
of  these  years,  and  above  all  his  very  beautiful 
intimacy  with  John  Sargent  of  King’s,  who  had 
taken  his  degree  with  Martyn  but  was  not  personally 
known  to  him  till  Simeon’s  introduction. 

Young  Sargent,  heir  of  a  Sussex  squire,  had  shown 
at  Eton  44  a  decided  superiority  in  the  manly  sports 
of  the  playground,  with  high  classical  attainments.” 
When  he  came  up  to  Cambridge  he  was  one  of  the 
only  two  gownsmen  whom  Simeon’s  eye  had  been 
unable  to  quell,  a  fact  which  the  latter  did  not  fail 
to  appreciate.  And  when  conviction  entered  the 
soul  of  the  young  rioter,  and  Sargent  placed 
himself  on  the  side  of  the  44  serious  ”  undergraduates, 
Charles  Simeon  welcomed  him  to  a  life-long 
friendship. 


Fellow  of  St  John's 


75 


Through  the  pen  of  his  son-in-law  1  we  see  Sargent 
as  a  man  of  gracious  charm.  Both  he  and  Martyn 
44  belonged  to  a  school  of  Attic  elegance  which  is 
declining  amongst  us — a  school  of  men  who  studied 
the  classics,  not  as  a  means  by  which  to  obtain 
distinction,  nor  merely  to  acquire  in  the  knowledge 
of  another  language  a  key  to  fresh  mental  attain¬ 
ments,  but  for  their  own  sweetness.  These  were 
men  whose  whole  spirit  breathed  of  classical 
refinement.” 

44  A  friend  indeed  ”  Martyn  called  Sargent,  writing 
to  Sally  in  September  1801,  44  and  one  who  has  made 
much  about  the  same  advances  in  religion  as  myself.” 
For  one  so  sensitive  as  Martyn,  this  was  a  whole¬ 
some  friendship,  for  though  none  ever  possessed 
44  a  softer  touch  ”  than  Sargent,  he  was  44  frank  and 
sparkling,”  with  44  a  perpetual  spring  of  holy,  guileless 
gaiety.”  As  yet  he  was  a  young  disciple,  but  he 
was  growing  towards  that  freedom  and  spontaneity 
as  of  a  child  at  home  in  his  father’s  house,  which 
his  son-in-law  shows  as  one  of  the  dominant  notes 
in  his  religious  life,  a  rare  note  in  those  days  of  rather 
portentous  solemnity. 

It  might  be  from  mingling  in  the  sports  and  merri¬ 
ments  of  childhood  ;  it  might  be  from  the  excitement 
of  intellectual  conversation  ;  that  he  was  called  upon  to 
turn  his  attention  at  once  to  holy  things.  The  transi¬ 
tion  was  effected  in  a  moment.  It  was  natural  and 
reverend  ;  free  from  anything  of  sternness ;  and 
impressing  upon  everyone  the  evident  truth  that  his 
religion  was  no  gloomy  system  of  prohibitions  and 
restraint. 

1  Bishop  Samuel  Wilberforce  who  wrote  a  short  memoir  of  Sargent 
as  an  introduction  to  the  Journals  of  Henry  Martyn.  The  details 
given  about  him  are  largely  from  this  sketch. 


76 


Henry  Martyn 


To  these  two  friends  Charles  Simeon  sounded 
a  call.  To  them  as  to  all  the  choice  youth  whom 
he  gathered  into  the  inner  circle  of  his  friendship 
it  was  his  way  to  speak  again  and  again  of  ‘‘the 
transcendent  excellence  of  the  Christian  ministry.” 
But  in  Sargent  and  in  Martyn  the  words  of  their 
leader  roused  very  different  feelings. 

Sargent  who  “  seemed  scarcely  able  to  compre¬ 
hend  the  pleasure  of  owning  anything  unless  he 
could  give  it  to  another  ”  was  destined  to  become 
a  substantial  Sussex  landowner.  He  carried  in  the 
year  1801  the  spirit  of  a  son  of  Francis  in  the  year 
1210.  “  Could  I  have  been  assured  that  it  was 

God’s  will  that  I  should  serve  Him  as  a  minister, 
were  it  to  preach  to  the  wild  Indians,”  he  told  a 
friend,  “  nothing  should  stand  in  my  way.”  But 
parental  orders  were  distinct.  He  was  to  go  to 
the  Temple  and  “  follow  the  profession  of  the  law  ” 
as  a  valuable  training  for  the  future  head  of  a 
landed  family. 

With  intense  pain  of  spirit,  after  being  “  tossed 
about  for  a  long  time  ”  he  decided  that  Simeon’s 
call  was  not  for  him,  and  bent  to  the  parental  will 
as  to  discipline  from  his  Divine  Master.  The  effect 
of  the  self -conquest  was  manifest  to  his  friends. 
“  Sargent  seems  to  be  outstripping  us  all  ”  wrote 
Martyn.  But  Sargent  himself  was  chiefly  conscious 
of  the  difficulties  of  his  new  course.  “  Do  not  forget 
I  beseech  you,”  he  wrote,  “to  pray  for  me,  that 
the  love  of  Jesus  may  attend  me,  and  His  right 
hand  lead  me  through  the  perils  of  the  profession 
I  am  entering.” 

In  Martyn’s  mind  Charles  Simeon’s  exhortations 
had  struck  a  very  different  and  a  jarring  note. 


Fellow  of  St  John's 


77 


“  Few  could  surpass  him,”  wrote  Sargent  of  his 
friend,  “in  an  exquisite  relish  for  the  various  and 
refined  enjoyments  of  a  social  and  literary  life.” 
His  University  honours  placed  him  in  a  position 
to  choose  his  path,  and  the  very  profession  from 
which  Sargent  shrank  seemed  to  Martyn  alluring, 
as  a  path  to  money,  position  and  studious  leisure. 
“  I  could  not  consent,”  he  says,  “  to  be  poor  for 
Christ’s  sake.”  He  knew  the  humiliation  served 
out  to  Simeon’s  friends  in  clerical  life,  and  had 
seen  how,  if  Simeon  were  absent,  his  curate  was 
left  with  a  perfectly  impossible  burden  of  duty 
because  no  cleric  in  the  town  or  University  would 
demean  himself  by  serving  in  that  notorious  parish. 

But  Martyn’s  attitude  to  life  was  changing,  in 
part  through  Sargent’s  friendship,  and  still  more 
through  great  draughts  of  Bible  reading  and  solitary 
prayer  in  green  places  by  the  Cambridge  river 
during  the  long  vacation  of  1801.  That  summer 
marks  an  epoch  in  his  life.  “  Not  until  then,”  he 
said,  “  had  I  ever  experienced  any  real  pleasure  in 
religion.”  The  taste  which  grew  in  him  then  for 
solitude,  and  especially  for  solitude  out  of  doors, 
went  with  him  through  life. 

In  the  pages  of  his  Cambridge  journal  we  can 
trace  how  the  desire  grew  upon  him  for  the  Com¬ 
panionship  which  he  found  in  that  solitude  in  which 
he  was  never  alone.  In  that  journal  we  are  allowed 
to  watch  with  a  rare  intimacy  the  growth  of  a 
saint.  “  My  object  in  making  this  journal,”  he 
says,  “  is  to  accustom  myself  to  self-examination, 
and  to  give  my  experience  a  visible  form,  so  as 
to  leave  a  stronger  impression  on  the  memory,  and 
thus  to  improve  my  soul  in  holiness  ;  for  the  review 


73 


Henry  Martyn 


of  such  a  lasting  testimony  will  serve  the  double 
purpose  of  conviction  and  consolation.”  Whatever 
we  may  think  of  the  value  of  such  a  plan,  Martyn’s 
scrupulously  transparent  journal,  written  without 
a  shred  of  self-excuse,  as  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
all  His  angels,  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
human  document  left  by  the  Church  of  his  day, 
ranked  by  Dr  George  Smith  among  4 4  the  great 
spiritual  autobiographies  of  Catholic  literature.” 

Entry  after  entry  like  those  which  follow  serves 
to  give  us  a  glimpse  of  the  growing  taste  for  solitude, 
a  solitude  at  first  full  of  conscious  effort,  but  into 
which  there  stole  the  sense  of  a  Presence  so  sweet 
that  all  earthly  joys  went  less  to  that  communion. 

I  walked  in  the  fields  and  endeavoured  to  consider  my 
ways,  and  to  lift  up  my  heart  to  God. 

Walked  to  the  hawthorn  hedge.  ...  I  devoted 
myself  to  Him  solemnly,  and  trust  that  when  tempted 
to  sin  I  shall  remember  this  walk. 

Had  a  sweet,  supporting  sense  of  God’s  presence  in 
the  evening,  when  I  walked  hy  moonlight. 

I  determined  to  give  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  acts  of 
devotion  without  going  into  hall  to  dinner.  So  I  retired 
to  the  garden. 

During  my  walk,  my  mind  was  too  much  engaged  in 
the  composition  of  poetry,  which  I  found  to  leave  me  far 
short  of  that  sweetness  I  seemed  in  a  frame  to  enjoy. 
Yet  on  the  spot  where  I  have  often  found  the  presence 
of  God,  the  spirit  of  prayer  returned. 

My  imagination  takes  to  itself  wings  and  flies  to  some 
wilderness  where  I  may  hold  converse  in  solitude  with 
God. 

Was  empty  and  tired  for  want  of  being  alone. 

Let  me  but  ply  heart-work  in  secret,  let  me  but  walk 
alone  in  communion  with  God,  and  I  shall  surely  be  able 
to  offer  Him  sacrifices  more  pure. 

From  the  church  I  walked  to  our  garden,  where  I  was 
alone  an  hour,  I  trust  with  Christ. 


Fellow  of  St  John  s 


79 


The  sudden  appearance  of  evil  thoughts  made  me  very- 
unhappy,  but  I  found  refuge  in  God.  0  may  the  Lord 
.  .  .  make  me  to  find  in  Himself,  the  source  and  centre 
of  beauty,  a  sweet  and  satisfied  delight. 

What  is  this  world,  what  is  religious  company,  what 
is  anything  to  me  without  God  ?  They  become  a  bustle 
and  a  crowd  when  I  lose  sight  of  Him.  The  most  dreary 
wilderness  would  appear  paradise  with  a  little  of  His 
presence. 

A  man  cannot  yield  himself  to  such  Companion¬ 
ship  without  being  moulded  by  it,  and  the  Martyn 
who  thought  that  he  44  could  not  consent  to  be  poor 
for  Christ’s  sake  ”  found  himself  writing  to  Sally 
in  September  1801  : 

The  soul  that  has  truly  experienced  the  love  of  God 
will  not  stay  meanly  inquiring  how  much  he  shall  do, 
and  thus  limit  his  service  ;  but  will  be  earnestly  seeking 
more  and  more  to  know  the  will  of  our  heavenly  Father 
that  he  may  be  enabled  to  do  it. 

He  did  not  reach  his  final  decision  as  to  the  choice 
of  a  career  until  the  long  vacation  of  1802.  That 
summer,  after  a  walking  tour  in  Wales,  he  spent  a 
Cornish  holiday  in  sister  Laura’s  married  home,  a 
lovable  white  house  called  Woodbury  on  the  winding 
banks  of  the  Fal  Estuary.  Here  where  the  curlews 
called  and  the  steep  woods  met  the  lapping  water 
he  wandered  alone  with  the  Book  of  the  Prophet 
Isaiah,  passing  44  some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of 
his  life.”  When  he  returned  to  Cambridge  his  mind 
was  made  up.  He  would  seek  ordination  and 
accept  an  invitation  from  Charles  Simeon  to  become 
his  curate.  The  decision  was  not  easy  to  announce 
in  Cambridge,  as  his  journal  shows. 

Was  ashamed  to  confess  to  -  that  I  was  to  be 

Simeon’s  curate,  a  despicable  fear  of  man. 


8o 


Henry  Martyn 


Five  months  before  reaching  this  determination 
Martyn  had  obtained  his  fellowship  (April  5th,  1802), 
and  had  followed  it  up  by  winning  the  first  of  the 
only  University  prizes  open  to  middle  bachelors, 
the  Members’  Prize  for  a  Latin  essay  which  he  must 
declaim  in  public.  Sargent  says  that  46  men  of 
great  classical  celebrity  ”  contested  it  with  him. 
We  can  only  wonder  the  more  at  the  ease  of  the 
stride  with  which,  after  three  years  of  close  mathe¬ 
matical  work,  he  returned  to  the  classics  that  he 
loved. 

The  new  Fellow,  in  rooms  in  the  corner  of  the 
lovely  second  court  of  St  John’s,  lived  a  life  at  once 
sociable  and  solitary.  Men  found  him  accessible, 
for  with  all  his  love  of  pretty  manners  he  was  re¬ 
markable,  an  old  schoolfellow  tells  us,  for  44  simplicity 
and  ease.”  The  journal  shows  a  large  acquaintance 
and  it  shows  too  that  the  men  who  climbed  his 
staircase  had  a  way  of  staying  to  talk  long,  and 
sometimes  longer  than  he  liked. 

Interrupted  by  R.  who  stayed  till  nine.  Our 
conversation  was  on  mathematics. 

Some  of  my  acquaintance  drank  wine  with  me.  I  was 
more  careful  about  offending  them  by  overmuch  strictness 
than  of  offending  God  by  conformity  to  the  world. 

From  seven  to  twelve  wasted  by  repeated  calls  of 
friends. 

Insensibly  passed  the  whole  time  in  talking  about 
music. 

I  had  promised  to  walk  with - which  was  perfectly 

hateful  to  me  at  this  time,  when  I  had  such  need  of  being 
alone  with  God. 

For  he  was  living  now  in  two  worlds  and  the 
man  who  at  one  moment  had  all  heaven  before  his 
eyes,  at  another  was  terribly  mortified  because 


Fellow  of  St  Johns 


81 


“  fear  of  man  ”  kept  him  from  saying  grace  when 
two  visitors  from  Clare  Hall  came  to  breakfast. 
The  Journal  shows  him  always  accessible  to 
younger  men  in  need  of  help  with  mathematics, 
and  his  schoolfellow.  Dr  Carlyon,  had  memories 
of  running  to  Martyn’s  room  in  trouble  over  the 
Eleventh  Book  of  Newton  and  watching  him  push 
aside  a  massive  Bible,  pick  up  an  odd  sheet  of  paper 
and  with  a  few  miraculous  lines  sweep  away  all  his 
difficulties. 

As  Fellow,  Martyn  took  his  share  in  conducting 
the  college  examinations,  then  largely  oral ;  at 
different  times  he  examined  in  Butler,  Locke, 
Xenophon,  Juvenal  and  Euripides.  It  cost  him 
a  good  deal  of  nervous  malaise  to  examine  before  his 
brother  Fellows.  He  “doubted  of  his  fitness,”  but 
when  it  came  to  the  point  examined  “  with  great 
ease  to  myself  and  clearness,”  and  found  the 
“  attention  and  respect  ”  of  the  Fellows  after  his 
performance  in  hall  “  remarkable.”  Yet  here  again 
he  was  living  in  two  worlds.  “  There  was  some¬ 
thing  of  a  sacred  impression  on  my  mind  during  the 
examination  in  hall ;  several  of  the  poetical  images 
in  Virgil  in  which  they  had  been  examining,  especi¬ 
ally  those  taken  from  nature,  together  with  the 
sight  of  the  moon  rising  over  the  venerable  walls, 
and  sending  its  light  through  the  painted  glass, 
turned  away  my  thoughts  from  present  things  and 
raised  them  to  God.”  Did  any  trembling  candidate 
wonder  at  a  sudden  and  other-worldly  illumination 
in  the  face  of  the  man  who  was  examining  him 
“  with  great  ease  and  clearness  ”  ? 

And  did  the  dining  Fellows  catch  a  strange  light 
on  his  face  in  hall  at  times  like  that  when  the  con- 

F 


82 


Henry  Martyn 


versation  at  their  table  was  of  44  stones  falling  from 
the  moon,”  and  44  my  imagination  began  to  ascend 
among  the  shining  worlds  hung  in  the  midst  of 
space,  and  to  glance  from  one  to  another  ;  and  my 
heart  bounded  at  the  thought  that  I  was  going  a 
much  surer  way  to  behold  the  glories  of  the  Creator 
hereafter,  than  by  giving  up  my  time  to  speculations 
about  them  ”  ? 

Those  were  the  years  when  men  expected  Bona¬ 
parte  to  sail  across  the  Channel,  and  the  loyal 
University  formed  its  volunteer  corps  with  44  a 
grave  uniform,”  dark  blue  jacket,  black  stock,  grey 
trousers  and  short  black  gaiters.  So  clad,  Martyn 
used  to  drill  the  Fellows,  perhaps  as  the  youngest 
and  most  active  member  of  that  learned  body. 
One  would  like  to  know  whether  Mr  Catton  came 
down  from  the  observatory  tower  to  present  arms 
at  his  former  pupil’s  bidding.  The  drills  took  place 
on  Sidney  Piece  (now  the  Master’s  Garden)  or  on 
Parker’s  Piece,  and  sometimes  there  was  a  field 
day  at  Cherry  Hinton  chalk-pits.  Martyn  wrote 
to  Sargent  that  he  was  passing  his  summer  44  amid 
the  din  of  arms.  I  give  our  drilling  this  lofty  title.” 

With  all  his  share  in  college  life  and  work,  Martyn 
yet  gave  the  impression  to  his  colleagues  of  one 
who  had  his  being  in  another  world,  and  they  re¬ 
sented  it  as  men  always  resent  the  involuntary 
absorption  of  the  artist  or  the  saint. 

On  preparing  to  go  out  B.  called  upon  me,  and  our 
conversation  lasted  till  near  dinner  time.  He  thought 
that  by  immoderate  seclusion  I  deadened  those  fine 
feelings  that  we  should  cultivate,  and  neglected  the 
active  duties  of  life  :  that  a  thorough  and  universal 
change  of  heart  and  life  was  not  necessary  to  make  us 
Christians,  of  whom  there  might  be  all  degrees,  as  of 


Fellow  of  St  John  s 


83 


everything  else.  His  amazing  volubility  left  me  unable 
to  say  anything. 

Martyn  on  his  part  found  their  tastes  as 
mysterious  as  they  found  his  gauche  and  bizarre  : 

It  sometimes  appeared  astonishing  that  men  of  like 
passions  with  myself,  of  the  same  bodies,  of  the  same 
minds,  alike  in  every  other  respect,  knew  and  saw  no¬ 
thing  of  that  blessed  and  adorable  Being  in  whom  my 
soul  findeth  all  its  happiness,  but  were  living  a  sort  of 
life  which  to  me  would  be  worse  than  annihilation. 

Under  such  circumstances  that  matchless  com¬ 
bination  room  of  St  John’s  with  its  bossy  ceiling 
and  its  long  row  of  Tudor  windows  was  not  always 
a  place  of  joy  for  Martyn.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
after  an  intellectual  triumph  this  very  junior  Fellow 
found  there  44  respect  and  admiration  ”  from  which 
he  shrank  as  44  dangerous  ”  ;  but  there  were  other 
days  on  which  the  Johnians  had  great  relish  from 
a  little  mockery  of  their  resident  44  Methodist.” 
Martyn  must  have  provided  plenty  of  scope  for  wit ; 
like  Charles  Simeon  in  the  early  years  after  his 
conversion,  he  found  it  necessary  to  cut  himself 
off  from  much  that  a  maturer  disciple  could  have 
enjoyed  without  danger.  44 1  was  tinder  and  did 
not  like  to  go  near  sparks,”  Simeon  would  explain 
in  later  years.  To  the  immature  disciple  it  was  a 
question  of  entering  into  life  were  it  blind  or  halt  or 
maimed  ;  but  to  the  genial  souls  in  the  combination 
room  such  young  severity  must  have  seemed 
delicious.  44  Went  into  the  combination  room  after 
dinner,  where  some  of  those  present  kept  me  con¬ 
stantly  employed  by  asking  me  questions  to  make 
me  speak  against  the  usual  amusements  of  men.” 

So  he  walked  among  them  uncomprehended  and 


84 


Henry  Martyn 


often  uncomprehending,  with  that  involuntary  aloof¬ 
ness  of  the  poet  or  the  saint,  and  yet  equally 
with  a  new  yearning  towards  every  human  soul, 
that  would  lead  him  at  the  end  of  a  long  day’s  work 
to  read  aloud  to  his  bedmaker.  It  is  a  strange 
picture  of  the  rapt  young  scholar  by  the  lamp, 
reading  St  Luke  to  the  frowzy  old  lady  who  could 
not  read  for  herself.  Did  she  catch  the  meaning 
of  his  ministrations,  or  did  she  twiddle  her  thumbs 
and  possess  her  soul  in  patience  under  the  unac¬ 
countableness  of  her  gentleman’s  new  whim  ? 

This  new-found  care  of  the  once  fastidious  Martyn 
for  the  souls  of  dull  and  shabby  personages  was 
immensely  strengthened  when  in  the  autumn  of 
1802  he  read  the  life  of  David  Brainerd  1  and  found 
his  hero.  He  who  would  know  Martyn  must  ask 
what  manner  of  man  was  that  Brainerd  who  called 
out  his  depths  of  admiration. 

Martyn’s  hero  was  born  at  Hartford,  Connecticut, 
in  1718,  of  a  Puritan  family  that  named  him  David 
and  his  brothers  Hezekiah,  Nehemiah,  John  and 
Israel.  Surrounded  by  the  influences  that  com¬ 
monly  went  with  a  choice  of  names  in  which  the 
Old  Testament  held  so  heavy  a  predominance,  and 
suffering  from  a  wretched  constitution  and  the  loss 
of  both  parents  before  he  was  fourteen,  young  David 
hardly  surprises  us  when  he  writes  :  “I  was,  I 
think  from  my  youth  something  sober,  and  inclined 
rather  to  melancholy  than  the  contrary  extreme  ; 
but  do  not  remember  anything  of  conviction  of  sin, 
worthy  of  remark,  till  I  was,  I  believe,  about  seven 
or  eight  years  of  age.” 

1  An  Account  of  the  Life  of  David  Brainerd  by  Jonathan  Edwards, 
Edinburgh,  1798. 


Fellow  of  St  John  s 


85 


Yet  for  this  boy,  bred  in  so  dour  a  school,  there 
was  in  store  an  evangelical  experience  that  might 
be  recorded  of  one  of  the  mystics  of  Catholicism. 
It  came  to  him  on  a  “  Sabbath  evening  ”  in  July 
of  1739  when  he  was  twenty-one.  He  was,  he 
tells  us, 

walking  in  the  solitary  place  where  I  was  brought  to  see 
myself  lost  and  helpless  .  .  .  endeavouring  to  pray 
(though  being  as  I  thought  very  stupid  and  senseless) 
for  near  half  an  hour  (and  by  this  time  the  sun  was  about 
half  an  hour  high  as  I  remember),  then  as  I  was  walking 
in  a  thick  dark  grove  unspeakable  glory  seemed  to  open 
to  the  view  and  apprehension  of  my  soul.  I  do  not 
mean  any  external  brightness,  for  I  saw  no  such  thing  ; 
nor  do  I  intend  any  imagination  of  a  body  of  light, 
somewhere  away  in  the  third  heavens,  or  anything  of 
that  nature  ;  but  it  was  a  new  inward  apprehension 
or  view  that  I  had  of  God,  such  as  I  never  had  before, 
nor  anything  which  had  the  least  resemblance  of  it.  I 
stood  and  wondered  and  admired.  .  .  .  My  soul  was  so 
captivated  with  the  excellency,  loveliness,  greatness  and 
other  perfections  of  God,  that  I  was  even  swallowed  up 
in  Him  ;  at  least  to  that  degree  that  I  had  no  thought 
(as  I  remember)  at  first  about  my  own  salvation,  and 
scarce  reflected  that  there  was  such  a  creature  as 
myself.  ...  At  this  time  the  way  of  salvation  opened 
to  me  with  such  infinite  wisdom,  suitableness  and 
excellency,  that  I  wondered  I  should  ever  think  of  any 
other  way  of  salvation  ;  was  amazed  that  I  had  not 
dropt  my  own  contrivances,  and  complied  with  this 
lovely,  blessed  and  excellent  way  before. 

In  turning  over  the  yellow  leaves  of  the  life  of 
Martyn’s  hero,  one  finds  that  this  son  of  Calvinistic 
Independents,  this  Presbyterian  minister  of  the  mid¬ 
eighteenth  century  was  a  saint  spiritually  akin  to 
Francis  and  to  Raymond  Lull,  to  all  the  bearers  of 
the  stigmata  and  all  the  great  spiritual  lovers 
throughout  the  ages. 


\ 


86 


Henry  Martyn 


In  the  forenoon,  [says  Brainerd]  while  I  was  looking 
on  the  Sacramental  elements,  and  thinking  that  Jesus 
Christ  would  soon  be  “  set  forth  crucified  before  me,” 
my  soul  was  filled  with  light  and  love,  so  that  I  was 
almost  in  an  ecstasy;  .  .  .  and  I  felt  at  the  same  time 
an  exceeding  tenderness  and  most  fervent  love  towards 
all  mankind. 

Henceforth  this  Christo-centric  love  for  men  was 
one  of  the  marks  of  David  Brainerd  : 

God  enabled  me  so  to  agonize  in  prayer,  that  I  was 
quite  wet  with  sweat,  though  in  the  shade,  and  the  wind 
cool.  My  soul  was  drawn  out  very  much  for  the  world  ; 
I  grasped  for  multitudes  of  souls. 

The  language  of  my  thoughts  and  disposition 
(although  I  spoke  no  words)  now  were,  Here  I  am,  Lord, 
send  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  send  me  to  the  rough, 
the  savage  Pagans  of  the  wilderness  ;  send  me  from  all 
that  is  called  comfort  in  earth  .  ;  .  send  me  even  to  death 
itself  if  it  be  but  in  Thy  service  and  to  Thy  kingdom. 

To  the  wilderness  he  was  sent,  little  strength 
and  little  taste  as  he  had  for  it.  A  hillside  which  for 
Martyn’s  generation  would  have  been  44  romantic  ” 
was  for  Brainerd  and  his  fellow-settlers,  who  thought 
of  it  in  terms  of  weary  and  dangerous  travel,  44  a 
hideous  mountain.”  Into  the  44  hideous  and  howling 
wilderness  ”  Brainerd  was  sent  to  be  the  missionary 
and  shepherd  of  the  Indian  tribes  pushed  backwards 
by  advancing  settlers.  44  My  Indians,”  “  my  poor 
Indians,”  or  44  my  dear  little  flock  ”  he  called  them, 
gave  them  his  heart  and  lived  for  them  under 
conditions  that  to  him  were  hateful.  His  diet  as  he 
told  his  brother  John  was  44  mostly  of  hasty  pudding, 
boiled  corn,  and  bread  baked  in  the  ashes  and 
sometimes  a  little  meat  and  butter.  My  lodging  is 
a  little  heap  of  straw,  laid  upon  some  boards,  a 
little  way  from  the  ground,  for  it  is  a  log  room, 


Fellow  of  St  John  s 


87 


without  any  floor  that  I  lodge  in.”  For  his  Indians 
he  made  apostolic  journeys  to  camps  on  the  Susque- 
hannah  river,  himself  fast  dying  of  consumption. 

Near  night,  my  beast  that  I  rode  upon  hung  one  of 
her  legs  in  the  rocks,  and  fell  down  under  me.  .  .  . 
She  broke  her  leg  ;  and  being  in  such  a  hideous  place, 
and  near  thirty  miles  from  any  house  .  .  .  was  obliged 
to  kill  her,  and  to  prosecute  my  way  on  foot  .  .  .  just 
at  dark  we  kindled  a  fire,  cut  up  a  few  bushes,  and  made 
a  shelter  over  our  heads  to  save  us  from  the  frost,  which 
was  very  hard  that  night. 

When  Brainerd  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-two, 
having  spent  his  last  night  on  earth  in  44  very 
proper  discourse  ”  with  brother  John  concerning 
44  the  interest  of  religion  among  the  Indians,”  the 
forest  round  his  settlement  was  full  of  leafy  cells 
into  which  his  Indian  Christians  would  steal  at 
dawn  for  secret  prayer. 

This  was  the  life  that  made  an  irresistible  appeal 
to  Martyn  in  the  days  when,  by  all  accepted  canons 
of  taste  around  him,  he  should  have  been  listening 
to  the  dulcet  tones  of  that  divine  of  whom  George  III 
said  that  he  44  wished  every  youth  in  the  kingdom 
might  possess  a  copy  of  the  Bible  and  of  Blair.” 
Blair,  whose  44  fortune  was  easy,”  “lived  much  in 
the  style  of  a  gentleman  ”  and  wrote  in  a  corre¬ 
sponding  style.  So  much  did  the  age  enjoy  his 
ornate  and  measured  periods  that  he  received  £600 
a  volume  for  his  sermons.  His  address  to  youth 
was  conciliatory  :  and  we  feel  no  incongruity  at 
finding  extracts  from  his  sermons  bound  up  with 
Chesterfield’s  Advice  to  his  Son  and  Rochefoucauld’s 
Maxims  as  a  gift  for  the  young. 

44  While  some  by  wise  and  steady  conduct,”  says 


88 


Henry  Martyn 


this  most  urbane  of  mentors,  44  attain  distinction 
in  the  world,  and  pass  their  days  with  comfort  and 
honour  ;  others  of  the  same  rank,  by  mean  and 
vicious  behaviour,  forfeit  the  advantages  of  their 
birth,  involve  themselves  in  much  misery,  and  end 
in  being  a  disgrace  to  their  friends,  and  a  burden  on 
society.  .  .  .  Shall  happiness  grow  up  to  you  of 
its  own  accord,  and  solicit  your  acceptance,  when, 
to  the  rest  of  mankind  it  is  the  fruit  of  long  cultiva¬ 
tion,  and  the  acquisition  of  labour  and  care  ? 
Deceive  not  yourselves  with  such  arrogant  hopes. 
Whatever  be  your  rank,  Providence  will  not,  for 
your  sake,  reverse  its  established  order.  By  listen¬ 
ing  to  wise  admonitions,  and  tempering  the  vivacity 
of  youth  with  a  proper  mixture  of  serious  thought 
you  may  ensure  cheerfulness  for  the  rest  of  your  life. 
WTe  call  you  not  to  renounce  pleasure  but  enjoy 
it  in  safety.  Instead  of  abridging  it,  we  exhort 
you  to  pursue  it  on  an  extensive  plan.  We  propose 
measures  for  securing  its  possession  and  for  pro¬ 
longing  its  duration.”  1 

In  an  age  of  Blairdom,  Martyn  preferred  his 
Brainerd  sleeping  on  the  ground  by  the  Susque- 
hannah  river,  waking  in  a  cold  sweat,  spitting  blood, 
dragging  himself  on,  listening  unseen  to  the  pow¬ 
wows  of  medicine  men,  teaching  Indians  to  fence 
their  corn  by  day  and  to  answer  the  questions  of 
his  catechism  by  night,  battling  against  a  strain 
of  morbid  melancholy,  consumed  with  a  longing 
46  to  be  a  flame  of  fire  in  the  divine  service.” 

So  Martyn  pored  alone  over  the  chronicle  of  44  the 
fatigues  and  perils  of  another  journey  to  Susque- 
hannah,”  the  very  river  of  dreams  where,  but  a 
1  Blair’s  Sermons ,  Vol.  I.,  Sermon  XL 


Fellow  of  St  Johns 


89 


few  years  since,  young  Coleridge  of  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  with  Robert  Southey  of  Balliol  College, 
Oxford,  had  planned  a  44  social  colony.”  That 
44  Pantisocracy  ”  where  all  selfishness  was  to  be 
proscribed  made  a  glorious  theme  for  the  glorious 
talk  of  young  republican  poets.  But  “  Mr  C.’s  cooler 
friends  could  not  ascertain  that  he  had  received 
any  specific  information  respecting  this  notable 
river.  4  It  was  a  grand  river  ’  ;  but  there  were 
many  other  grand  and  noble  rivers  in  America  ; 
and  the  preference  given  to  the  Susquehannah, 
seemed  to  arise  solely  from  its  imposing  name.”  1 
For  Henry  Martyn  and  his  hero  the  Susquehannah 
was  no  river  of  vague  ideal  beauties.  The  con¬ 
templation  of  the  wayfarer  of  Christ  roused  in 
Martyn,  Sargent  tells  us,  44  a  holy  emulation,”  and 
pointed  the  way  to  the  hardest  struggle  he  had  yet 
known.  Again  and  again  the  name  of  Brainerd 
finds  its  way  into  the  J ournal : 

I  thought  of  David  Brainerd,  and  ardently  desired  his 
devotedness  to  God  and  holy  breathings  of  soul. 

Read  David  Brainerd  to-day  and  yesterday,  and  find 
as  usual  my  spirit  greatly  benefited  by  it.  I  long  to  be 
like  him  ;  let  me  forget  the  world  and  be  swallowed  up 
in  a  desire  to  glorify  God. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  in  conversing  and  writing 
letters.  My  heart  was  not  in  visible  disorder  during  all 
this,  but  it  is  not  the  spiritual  life  that  Brainerd  led. 

Read  Brainerd.  I  feel  my  heart  knit  to  this  dear  man, 
and  really  rejoice  to  think  of  meeting  him  in  heaven. 

It  was  to  Simeon  the  leader  that  Martyn  owed 
the  suggestion  of  the  path  by  which  he  was  to 
follow  Brainerd.  Charles  Simeon  had  been  one  of 
those  44  Methodist  ”  clergy  to  whom  Grant  and 

1  Joseph  Cottle,  Reminiscences  of  Coleridge  and  Southey ,  p.  22. 


90 


Henry  Martyn 


Brown  wrote  in  1787  of  their  proposed  mission  to 
Bengal.  “We  understand  that  such  matters  lie 
very  near  your  heart  ”  they  had  said.  Simeon’s 
ardent  mind  had  caught  fire,  and  from  that  moment, 
as  he  lived  his  industrious  days  in  Cambridge 
colleges  and  lanes,  his  eyes  had  been  set  towards 
the  east.  India  did  lie  very  near  his  heart.  To 
Martyn  on  his  return  from  Cornwall  in  1802  with 
the  resolution  to  be  ordained,  he  said  some  eager 
words  about  the  good  done  “  by  one  missionary  in 
India,”  the  immortal  cobbler  Dr  Carey,  whose 
Periodical  Accounts  from  Serampore  were  earnestly 
followed  by  Simeon. 

Martyn  listened  to  his  leader ;  then  he  read 
Brainerd ;  the  appeal  of  Simeon’s  words  and  of 
Brainerd’s  life  lived  together  in  his  mind  through 
the  autumn  of  1802  ;  against  them  were  all  the 
inclinations  of  his  nature.  When  the  last  leaves 
were  falling  from  the  elms  in  the  Fellows’  garden 
“  he  was  at  length  fixed  in  a  resolution  to  imitate 
Brainerd’s  example.”  And  he  proposed  to  do  it 
by  offering  himself  as  a  missionary  to  the  tiny  new 
society  formed  in  London  by  some  of  Simeon’s 
acquaintance  under  the  title  of  “  The  Society  for 
Missions  to  Africa  and  the  East.”  1 

Martyn’s  decision  startled  his  world  almost  as 
much  as  if  he  had  proposed  a  flight  to  the  moon  ; 
and  not  the  least  surprised  people  were  the  committee 
of  the  little  missionary  society  gathered  in  the  study 
of  a  London  rectory.  Since  their  foundation  in 
1799  no  Englishman  had  offered  to  serve  them  as 

1  Known  to-day  as  the  Church  Missionary  Society.  The  group 
who  formed  it  were  friends  of  Simeon  and  invited  him  to  become  a 
“  country  member.” 


Fellow  of  St  Johns 


9i 


a  foreign  missionary,  and  in  the  month  when  Martyn 
sent  his  enquiry  (November  1802)  they  had  inter¬ 
viewed  two  young  German  pietists,  an  interview  not 
without  its  difficulties,  since  neither  the  committee 
nor  the  candidates  knew  many  words  of  the  other 
party’s  language.  The  Germans  had  been  accepted 
as  14  catechists  ”  for  West  Africa  and  sent  to 
Clapham  to  learn  a  little  English.1  The  secretary 
of  the  committee  now  received  an  astonishing 
enquiry  about  service  from  a  young  scholar  who, 
as  far  as  university  preferments  were  concerned, 
had  the  ball  at  his  feet. 

Both  in  Cambridge  and  in  Cornwall  Martyn’s 
step  was  regarded  as  fantastic  and  absurd. 

Walked  out  in  the  evening  in  great  tranquillity  and 
on  my  return  met  with  Mr  C.,  with  whom  I  was  obliged 
to  walk  an  hour  longer.  He  thought  it  a  most  improper 
step  for  me  to  leave  the  University  to  preach  to  the 
ignorant  heathen,  which  any  person  could  do. 

Such  was  the  University  opinion  of  the  missionary 
vocation. 

In  Cornwall  it  was  much  the  same  : 

Breakfasted  with  - ,  he  presently  entered  into  the 

highest  points  of  the  Calvinistic  scheme  .  .  .  my  heart 
was  much  frozen  by  the  conversation  ;  he  had  but  a 
slight  opinion  of  missionary  work,  though  he  has,  I  know, 

great  affection  for  me.  .  .  .  Dined  at  - ’s  who  used 

every  argument  to  dissuade  me  from  going  to  India. 

To  Sally  he  confided,  “  The  thought  that  I  might 
be  unceasingly  employed  in  the  same  kind  of  work, 
amongst  poor  ignorant  people,  is  what  my  proud 
spirit  revolts  at.  To  be  obliged  to  submit  to  a 
thousand  uncomfortable  things  that  must  happen  to 

1  See  Eugene  Stock,  History  of  the  Church  Missionary  Society,  I.  83. 


92 


Henry  Martyn 


me  whether  as  a  minister  or  a  missionary  is  what 
the  flesh  cannot  endure.” 

Even  Sally  was  not  encouraging.  Perhaps  she 
was  beginning  to  be  absorbed  in  her  own  love  affair. 
At  all  events  she  does  not  seem  to  have  realized 
that  Henry  was  no  longer  the  flighty  schoolboy  for 
whom  she  used  to  pray.  “  Received  a  letter  from 
my  sister  in  which  she  expressed  her  opinion  of  my 
unfitness  for  the  work.”  She  told  him  that  he  was 
lacking  in  “  that  deep  and  solid  experience  necessary 
for  a  missionary.” 

Martyn  was  half  inclined  to  agree  with  her  and 
the  Journal  shows  a  picture  of  steady  self-discipline, 
“to  fit  me  for  a  long  life  of  warfare  and  constant 
self-denial.” 

How  mortally  do  I  hate  the  thought,  yet  certainly  I 
will  do  the  will  of  God,  if  I  be  cut  piece-meal. 

I  resolved  on  my  knees  to  live  a  life  of  far  more  self- 
denial  than  I  had  ever  yet  done,  and  to  begin  with  little 
things.  Accordingly  I  ate  my  breakfast  standing  at 
a  distance  from  the  fire,  and  stood  reading  at  the  window 
during  the  morning,  though  the  thermometer  stood  at 
freezing-point.  ...  I  rejoiced  that  God  had  made  this 
life  a  time  of  trial.  To  climb  the  steep  ascent,  to  run, 
to  fight,  to  wrestle  was  the  desire  of  my  heart. 


CHAPTER  V 


A  CURACY  AMONG  THE  EVANGELICALS 

Read  Mr  Edward’s  piece  on  the  affections  again  and  again. — 
Letter  of  David  Brainerd. 

That  great  man,  Jonathan  Edwards. — Henry  Martyn’s  Journal. 

Many  spirits  are  abroad,  more  are  issuing  from  the  pit ;  the 
credentials  which  they  display  are  the  precious  gifts  of  mind, 
beauty,  richness,  depth,  originality.  Christian,  look  hard  at  them 
with  Martin  in  silence,  and  ask  them  for  the  print  of  the  nails. — 
J.  H.  Newman,  The  Church  of  the  Fathers . 

We  must  speak  out.  Their  Christianity  is  not  Christianity.  It 
wants  the  radical  principle.  It  is  mainly  defective  in  all  the  grand 
constituents. — William  Wilberforce,  A  Practical  View  of 
Christianity. 

On  an  October  morning  in  1803  Henry  Martyn 
hired  a  gig  and  bowled  out  of  Cambridge  through 
the  autumn  lanes  to  Ely,  to  be  examined  by  the 
Bishop’s  chaplain,  and  to  be  ordained  next  day  in 
the  Cathedral.  He  went  into  the  Bishop’s  chapel, 
and  kneeling  there  before  his  examination  felt 
“great  shame  at  having  come  so  confidently  to  offer 
myself  for  the  ministry  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
with  so  much  ignorance  and  unholiness.”  The 
examination  of  candidates  for  ordination  in  1803 
was  an  almost  casual  affair,  and  Martyn’s  preparation, 
mental  and  spiritual,  had  been  left  to  his  own 
devices. 

Rarely  did  a  candidate  present  himself  with  mind 
more  soaked  in  Holy  Scripture,  or  who  took  with 

93 


94 


Henry  Martyn 


a  more  awful  reverence  “  authority  to  read  the 
Gospel  in  the  Church  of  God  and  to  preach  the 
same.”  Three  times  daily  in  his  college  rooms  he 
bathed  his  soul  in  Holy  Writ ;  and  on  walks  to 
Lolworth  or  Shelford,  or  on  solitary  rides  he  learned 
whole  books  by  heart.  The  details  in  the  Journal 
show  that  his  imagination,  jealously  watched 
and  repressed  in  some  directions,  had  free  play 
here  : 

I  addressed  myself  with  earnest  prayer  and  a  strong 
desire  to  know  and  learn  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans  in 
the  Greek. 

Read  the  Psalms  with  a  bright  light  shining  upon 
them. 

Read  the  Acts  this  morning  with  great  delight.  I 
love  to  dwell  in  sacred  scenes  other  than  those  which 
pass  before  me,  and  especially  those  in  which  the  men 
of  God  are  concerned. 

Read  at  night  the  first  three  chapters  of  the  Revelation, 
and  found  them  as  usual  very  searching  and  awful. 

Read  the  latter  end  of  the  Revelation,  and  so  very 
lively  was  the  impression  on  my  mind,  that  I  was  often 
in  tears.  So  awful,  so  awakening  was  this  book  to  me. 

But  the  book  that  was  above  all  the  home  of  his 
spirit  and  to  which,  perhaps  insensibly,  he  returned 
the  most,  was  the  prophecy  of  Isaiah  : 

Hoped  to  enjoy  some  of  the  peace  and  joy  I  used  to 
feel  in  reading  Isaiah  but  was  interrupted.  [Or  again] 
In  great  sorrow  I  read  some  of  Isaiah. 

It  was  his  lifelong  love,  and  in  the  great  Bible 
that  he  took  with  him  to  India  this  book  more  than 
any  other  is  interlined,  in  his  free  and  delicate 
penmanship,  with  readings  from  the  Septuagint  or 
Hebrew. 

Butler  and  Paley  he  read  as  the  indispensable 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  95 


apologists  of  his  day  ;  and  on  them  the  examining 
chaplain  set  most  of  his  questions. 

But  Martyn  had  also  browsed  in  experimental 
divinity.  He  had  found  for  himself  St  Augustine’s 
Confessions ,  then  strangely  out  of  fashion,  and 
dismissed  a  generation  later  by  Macaulay 
as  44  an  interesting  book  marred  in  places  by  the 
style  of  a  field  preacher,”  but  calling  to  the  deeps 
in  Martyn.  William  Law  :  44  rather  a  favourite 

of  mine  ”  .  .  .  44  Rose  at  half  after  five  according 
to  the  impulse  I  received  from  reading  Law.” 
Bishop  Hopkin’s  1  sermons  :  44  Never  did  I  read 
such  energetic  language.”  But  above  all  other 
divines  the  man  of  Martyn’s  heart,  at  whose  name 
examining  chaplains  would  have  shuddered,  was 
one  Jonathan  Edwards,  born  in  Connecticut  in 
the  days  of  good  Queen  Anne,  and  educated  at 
“Yale  College,”  bred  up  a  Calvinist  and  ordained 
a  Presbyterian  minister,  a  man  whose  books  show 
him  44  a  seer  oppressed  by  his  tremendous  faith.” 

There  was  room  in  Edwards  at  one  and  the  same 
moment  for  an  awful  sense  of  sin,  a  passion  of 
adoration  and  a  terribly  lucid  intellectual  view  of 
the  universe. 

My  wickedness  as  I  am  in  myself,  has  long  appeared 
to  me  perfectly  ineffable,  and  infinitely  swallowing  up 
all  thought  and  imagination,  like  an  infinite  deluge,  or 
infinite  mountains  over  my  head.  I  know  not  how  to 
express  better  what  my  sins  appear  to  me  to  be,  than  by 
heaping  infinite  upon  infinite  and  multiplying  infinite 
by  infinite.  I  go  about  very  often  for  these  many  years 

1  1634-1690,  Bishop  of  Derry.  He  won  the  appreciation  of  the  early 
evangelicals.  Doddridge  remarks  of  him  in  his  Lectures  on  Preaching : 
“  His  motto  aut  suaviter  aut  vi  well  answers  to  his  works.  Yet  he  trusts 
most  to  the  latter.  He  awakes  awfully.” 


96 


Henry  Martyn 


with  such  expressions  in  my  mind,  and  in  my  mouth 
“  Infinite  upon  Infinite  !  Infinite  upon  Infinite  !  ” 

Yet  this  burdened  soul  bore  about  with  him  what 
he  called  “  a  sort  of  inward,  sheer  delight  in  God.” 

I  often  used  to  sit  and  view  the  moon  for  a  long  time  ; 
and  so  in  the  day  time,  spent  much  time  in  viewing  the 
clouds  and  sky,  to  behold  the  sweet  glory  of  God  in  these 
things.  .  .  .  And  scarce  anything,  among  all  the  works 
of  nature,  was  so  sweet  to  me  as  thunder  and  lightning 
.  .  .  it  rejoiced  me.  I  felt  God  at  the  first  appearance 
of  a  thunderstorm. 

This  vivid,  emotional  nature  so  congenial  to 
Martyn  was  joined  with  a  lucid,  systematizing  mind. 
Before  going  to  his  first  cure  Edwards  recorded 
among  his  resolutions  :  “  Resolved,  when  I  think 
of  any  Theorem  in  Divinity  to  be  solved,  immedi¬ 
ately  to  do  what  I  can  towards  solving  it  if  Circum¬ 
stances  don’t  hinder.”  And  so  there  came  thunder¬ 
ing  out  of  the  wilderness  books  to  which  Martyn 
turned  again  and  again  as  the  most  satisfying  body 
of  divinity  :  Jonathan  Edwards  on  The  Great 
Christian  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin  Defended,  virile, 
incisive,  terrible.  Jonathan  Edwards  on  The  History 
of  Redemption,  clear-cut  and  all  but  debonair.  But 
above  all  Jonathan  Edwards,  Concerning  Religious 
Affections,  as  searching  in  its  scrutiny  of  human 
motive  as  the  discipline  of  any  monastic  confessor. 

Such  reading  was  Martyn ’s  preparation  for  the 
ministry.  The  examining  chaplain  gave  him  a  test  in 
New  Testament  Greek,  in  theological  Latin,  with  some 
questions  in  Christian  evidences,  and  set  him  free. 

After  leaving  the  palace  I  was  in  very  low  spirits.  I 
had  now  nothing  to  think  of  but  the  weight  and  difficul  ty 
of  the  work  which  lay  before  me. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  97 


His  depression  was  not  helped  by  finding  the  other 
candidates  flippant  at  dinner  ;  good  enough  boys 
perhaps,  sent  by  their  fathers  for  ordination  to  a 
family  living,  without  a  thought  of  the  mysteries 
profaned.  Martyn  begged  one  of  them  in  a  quiet 
moment  “  to  read  the  ordination  service,”  and  he 
“  was  much  affected.” 

Next  morning 

At  half-past  ten  we  went  to  the  cathedral.  During 
the  ordination  and  Sacramental  services  I  sought  in 
vain  for  a  humble  heavenly  mind.  The  outward  shew 
which  tended  to  inspire  solemnity  affected  me  more  than 
the  faith  of  Christ’s  presence,  giving  me  the  commission 
to  preach  the  gospel. 

With  inward  struggle,  then,  Martyn ’s  ministry 
began,  and  with  struggle  it  continued.  Without 
other  training  than  a  resident  fellowship  in  the 
University,  he  was  thrust  as  Simeon’s  curate  into  the 
care  of  the  little  parish  of  Lolworth  four  miles  out 
of  Cambridge.  There,  among  his  country  folk,  or 
in  the  almshouses  and  lanes  of  the  city  where 
Simeon  set  him  to  visit,  he  felt  “  a  mere  schoolboy  ” 
with  words  and  manner  smacking  of  college  rather 
than  of  life,  and  perhaps  hiding  from  his  hearers 
the  very  realities  he  was  struggling  to  express. 

H.  and  my  other  friends  complained  of  my  speaking 
too  low  and  with  too  little  elocution.  These  things, 
with  the  difficulty  I  had  found  in  making  sermons,  and 
the  poorness  of  them,  made  me  appear  exceedingly 
contemptible  to  myself.  I  began  to  see  (and  amazing 
is  it  to  say)  for  the  first  time,  that  I  must  be  content  to 
take  my  place  among  men  of  second-rate  abilities. 

C.  told  me  I  was  far  above  the  comprehension  of  people 
in  general.  Nothing  pains  and  grieves  me  more  than 
this,  for  I  had  rather  be  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel  among 

G 


98 


Henry  Martyn 


the  poor,  and  to  the  poor,  so  as  to  be  understood  by  them, 
than  be  anything  else  upon  earth. 

Later,  Mr  Cecil,  of  St  John’s,  Bedford  Row,  added 
his  brisk  advice  : 

Brother  Martyn,  you  are  a  humble  man,  and  would 
gain  regard  in  private  life  ;  but  to  gain  public  attention 
you  must  force  yourself  into  a  more  marked  and  ex¬ 
pressive  manner. 

Mr  Cecil  has  been  taking  a  great  deal  of  pains  with 
me.  My  insipid  inanimate  manner  in  the  pulpit,  he  says, 
is  intolerable.  Sir,  said  he,  it  is  cupola-painting,  not 
miniature,  that  must  be  the  aim  of  a  man  that  harangues 
a  multitude. 

Diligent  pastoral  visiting  was  the  rule  for  Simeon’s 
curates,  and  it  was  no  easy  rule  to  Martyn.  “  It 
is  my  will  rather  to  sit  down,  to  please  myself  with 
reading,  and  let  the  world  perish.” 

The  work  of  visiting  the  people  of  Cambridge  and 
reading  to  and  praying  with  them  appeared  hateful 
to  me. 

Yet  day  after  day  he  was  driven  out  from  the 
congenial  world  of  books  by  a  sense  of  terrible 
responsibility.  It  is  clear  that  he  often  stayed  too 
long  in  a  sick-room,  but  he  left  his  people  with  no 
possible  doubt  that  someone  cared  for  their  souls. 
The  Journal  is  full  of  vignettes. 

He  was  lying  in  his  clothes  and  hat,  on  the  bed,  dying  : 
his  wife  was  cleaning  the  room  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter  ;  and  on  the  threshold  was  the  daughter,  about 
thirty-three  years  old,  who  had  been  deranged  thirteen 
years.  Her  mother  said  that  the  poor  creature  some¬ 
times  talked  of  religion  :  so  I  asked  her,  several  times, 
before  I  could  arrest  her  attention,  Who  came  into  the 
world  to  save  sinners  ?  After  several  wild  looks  she 
hastily  answered,  “  Christ,”  and  then  talked  on  as  before. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  99 


The  dying  man  was  almost  insensible  to  anything  I  could 
say. 

Wished  for  nothing  but  to  be  doing  the  work  of  Christ 
and  went  in  this  frame  to  visit  the  woman  and  her  son. 
The  room  was  so  exceedingly  offensive  that  I  could 
scarcely  endure  it  for  an  instant,  yet  by  care  I  was  able 
to  continue  for  about  half  an  hour. 

Went  to  see  a  poor  young  woman,  who  after  a  life  of 
sin,  appears  to  be  in  a  dying  state,  though  only  seventeen  ; 
she  was  in  too  much  pain  to  attend  to  me  much,  and  so 
I  withdrew,  affected  almost  to  tears.  My  heart  was 
ready  to  burst  when  I  thought  of  the  man  who  had 
seduced  her. 

After  church  called  at  two  of  the  cottages.  In  one 
the  man,  the  father  of  a  large  family,  and  in  the  other 
the  mother  .  .  .  told  me  in  the  course  of  conversation 
that  they  used  the  belief  as  their  favourite  prayer  at 
night.  I  was  perfectly  shocked. 

All  his  life  Martyn  would  be  “  perfectly  shocked  ” 
at  what  another  man  would  meet  with  a  rueful  smile. 
All  his  friends  note  in  him  a  certain  “  simplicity” 
which  always  credited  others  with  the  spiritual 
standards  of  his  own  life,  and  left  him  unshielded 
against  many  a  rude  encounter  with  things  as  they 
were. 

There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  these  years 
in  Simeon’s  parish  were  years  of  overwork.  College 
life  and  interests  went  on  as  before,  and  to  these 
were  added  the  cure  of  Lolworth,  with  cottage 
visiting  and  catechizing  in  the  school  (“  I  seem 
able  to  instruct  children  ”),  and  a  share  of  the  work 
in  Trinity  parish,  sermons,  week-day  services,  visits 
to  hospital,  almshouses,  workhouse,  sick-beds  and 
meetings  of  “  Societies  ”  for  Bible  study. 

The  incessant  employment  of  my  thoughts  about  the 
necessary  business  of  my  life,  parishes,  pupils,  sermons. 


IOO 


Henry  Martyn 


sick,  leave  far  too  little  time  for  my  private  meditations  ; 
so  that  I  know  little  of  God  and  my  soul.  Resolved  I 
would  gain  some  hours  from  my  usual  sleep  if  there  were 
no  other  way. 

Martyn’s  reward  and  relaxation  after  work  was 
the  grammar  of  some  Eastern  language.  A  grammar 
was  to  him  what  a  novel  is  to  the  ordinary  tired 
mortal  : 

Finished  the  Bengalee 1  grammar  which  I  began 
yesterday. 

Wasted  much  time  in  looking  over  an  Arabic 
grammar. 

Finding  myself  in  great  stupidity  I  took  up  the 
Hindoostanee  grammar,  that  the  time  might  not  pass 
away  without  any  profit. 

Very  unwillingly  left  Bengalee  for  writing  sermon. 

Thus  greedily  and  by  snatches,  as  a  delightful 
relaxation,  Martyn  worked  on  Persian  and  Arabic, 
Gilchrist’s  Hindustani  Dictionary  and  Reader  (a 
pioneer  work)  and  Halhed’s  Bengali  Grammar  for 
which  the  first  printed  type  ever  made  in  that 
script  was  punched  with  his  own  hands  by  Sir 
Charles  Wilkins,  the  orientalist  who  under  Warren 
Hastings  first  made  Britain  aware  of  the  treasures 
hidden  in  Sanskrit  literature. 

The  friends  who  allowed,  nay  encouraged,  Martyn 
at  an  all  but  intolerable  strain,  to  forsake  scholar¬ 
ship  for  a  busy  parochial  round  were  men  whose 
gifts  lay  along  the  lines  of  the  more  active  duties. 
Charles  Simeon,  essentially  an  organizer,  had  found 
his  ideal  senior  curate,  and  perhaps  the  most 

1  Here  a.s  elsewhere  in  quotations  from  Martyn  or  others  of  his  day 
their  spelling  of  oriental  words  is  preserved ;  perhaps  it  may  help  to 
place  them  in  their  setting  as  pioneer  workers  before  the  days  of 
comparative  phonetics. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  ioi 


intimate  friend  of  his  life,  in  Thomas  Thomason, 
a  mathematical  tutor  who  learned  to  dread  44  the 
mathematical  religion  prevalent  at  Cambridge,”  and 
turned  for  leadership  to  that  intrepid  figure  in 
Trinity  Church  with  his  forward -pushing  chin  and 
his  warm  urgency  of  manner.  To  Simeon  Thomason 
gave  as  a  personal  friend  an  almost  filial  care,  and 
as  a  curate  all  the  support  of  the  reliable,  unresting 
diligence  of  himself  and  his  good  wife. 

Martyn  went  often  to  Thomason’s  home  at  Shel- 
ford  to  talk  in  the  riverside  garden  with  Simeon 
and  his  host.  He  would  come  away  full  of  self- 
abasement  at  the  sight  of  Thomason’s  unfussed 
diligence,  and  the  piety  of  his  orderly  household. 
For  all  their  love  to  him  the  group  that  he  left 
under  the  chestnut  trees  at  Shelford  did  not  realize 
the  half  of  the  effort  at  which  he  was  doing  the 
pastoral  duties  so  delightful  to  themselves. 

So  Martyn,  Cornish,  imaginative,  scholarly,  took 
his  place  among  men  who  for  all  their  solid  abilities 
half  agreed  with  old  John  Newton  (still  living  in 
London  and  laying  down  the  law  with  homely 
shrewdness),  that  aesthetic  interests  only  stimulated 
the  44  depraved  nature  ”  of  man. 

44 1  think  it  probable,”  said  Newton  to  a  friend 
who  was  admiring  sculpture  in  Rome,  44 1  think 
it  probable  from  many  passages  in  the  Apostle 
Paul’s  writings,  that  he  likewise  had  a  taste  capable 
of  admiring  and  relishing  the  beauties  of  painting, 
sculpture,  and  architecture  .  .  .  but  then  he  had 
a  higher,  a  spiritual,  a  divine  taste,  which  was 
greatly  shocked  and  grieved  by  the  ignorance, 
idolatry  and  wickedness  which  surrounded  him, 
in  so  much  that  he  could  attend  to  nothing  else.” 


102 


Henry  Martyn 


A  minister  of  the  Gospel,  he  would  say,  is  better 
without  “  a  large  stock  of  other  people’s  dreams 
and  fables.” 

In  the  fellowship  of  such  a  group,  Martyn  learned 
Christ.  If  they  pointed  him  to  intellectual  privation, 
what  was  that  ? 

The  pursuits  of  science  [he  wrote]  and  all  the  vain 
and  glittering  employments  of  men  seemed  a  cruel 
withholding  from  their  perishing  brethren  of  that  time 
and  exertion  which  might  save  their  souls. 

I  was  led  to  think  a  good  while  on  my  deficiency  in 
human  learning.  ...  I  cannot  but  think  (though  it  is 
not  easy  to  do  so)  that  it  must  be  more  acceptable  to  God 
to  labour  for  souls,  though  the  mind  remains  uninformed. 

Such  entries  in  his  journal  would  have  been  read 
with  warm  approval  by  old  John  Newton,  and  by 
Charles  Simeon  himself.  But  another  side  of  Henry 
Martyn  struggled  for  life.  At  one  moment  he 
renounced  earthly  beauty  as  “  ensnaring  ”  and  set 
off  to  pray  by  a  bed  in  the  workhouse.  At  another 
he  gave  her  a  hesitating  welcome  as  a  handmaid 
to  worship. 

The  music  and  the  sight  of  a  rural  scene  of  solitude 
had  the  effect  of  fixing  my  thoughts  on  heaven. 

I  heard  the  chant  at  King’s  with  the  same  emotions 
of  devotion.  [We  almost  feel  John  Newton  stirring 
uneasily  in  his  chair.] 

The  sanctity  of  the  place  and  the  music,  brought 
heaven  and  eternal  things  and  the  presence  of  God  very 
near  to  me. 

But  with  what  circumspection  he  admits  her, 
even  as  a  handmaid,  to  the  sanctuary  and  with 
what  jealousy  lest  his  profane  love  assume  more 
than  the  handmaid’s  place  !  Henry  Martyn’s  hymn- 
book  like  John  Wesley’s  would  have  been  prefaced 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  103 


with  the  caution  that  “  what  is  of  infinitely  more 
moment  than  the  spirit  of  poetry  is  the  spirit  of 
piety.” 

At  this  moment  in  his  life,  like  his  namesake  who 
slashed  at  his  cloak  that  the  beggar  might  have 
half,  Martyn  was  cutting  ruthlessly  at  his  own 
intellectual  and  aesthetic  life,  for  the  sake  of  the 
souls  of  the  poor.  Like  his  leader  Simeon,  he 
observed  days  of  fasting  and  abstinence,  but  his 
true  fast  was  that  which  he  imposed  on  his  intellectual 
and  artistic  appetites.  Yet  even  as  he  crushed 
back  his  desires  for  beauty  he  found  (with  an 
experience  rare  among  the  early  evangelicals  as 
his  nature  of  aesthetic  hungers  was  rare  amongst 
them)  that  his  lips  were  laid  at  her  very  source. 

My  heart  adored  the  Lord  as  the  author  and  source 
of  all  the  intellectual  beauty  that  delighted  me  ;  as  the 
creator  of  all  the  fair  scenes  that  employ  the  poet’s  pen  ; 
and  as  the  former  of  the  mind  that  can  find  pleasure  in 
beauty.  .  .  .  My  soul  seems  labouring  still  with  the 
mysterious  glories  of  religion.  What  shall  appear  to 
this  soul  when  I  die  ?  What  shall  appear  of  God’s 
glory  while  I  live  ?  Since  I  have  known  God  .  .  . 
painting,  poetry  and  music,  have  had  charms  unknown 
to  me  before.  I  have  received  what  I  suppose  is  a  taste 
for  them  :  for  religion  has  .  .  .  made  my  mind  sus¬ 
ceptible  of  impressions  from  the  sublime  and  beautiful. 

With  the  unfailing  paradox  of  the  Gospel,  Henry 
Martyn  had  lost  his  life  only  to  find  it,  heightened 
and  summed  up  in  Christ, 

Ubi  non  praevenit  rent  desiderium 
Nec  desiderio  minus  est  praemium. 

The  Journal  during  the  Cambridge  curacy  shows 
signs  of  unwilling  preoccupation  with  legal  business. 
Martyn  suddenly  learned  that  the  slender  fortune 


io4 


Henry  Martyn 


left  him  by  his  father  was  totally  lost,  and  his 
unmarried  sister  Sally  entirely  dependent  on  him. 
Dr  Smith  tells  us  of  a  tradition  in  the  family  of 
his  half-brother  John  that  Henry  and  his  sisters 
litigated  with  them  at  this  time.1  However  that 
may  have  been,  Henry’s  plans  were  now  thrown 
into  confusion.  He  could  not  feel  justified  in  ac¬ 
cepting  the  subsistence  allowance  of  a  missionary, 
and  leaving  Sally  in  distress.  Bishop  Wilberforce 
says  that  for  nearly  three  years  (1803-5)  the  family 
financial  questions  44  often  harassed  his  conscience, 
engrossing  much  of  his  time,  and  deeply  depressing 
his  spirits.”  “  Unless  Providence  should  see  fit  to 
restore  our  property,”  Martyn  told  Sargent,  44  I 
see  no  possibility  of  my  going  out  [to  India].” 
But  his  friends  pointed  out  another  opening. 

Charles  Grant,  from  one  of  the  Chairs  in  Leaden- 
hall  Street,  was  looking  anxiously  for  like-minded 
chaplains  to  work  with  David  Brown  in  Bengal. 
The  Company’s  salary  would  enable  Martyn  to 
support  Sally  ;  and  the  need  for  good  men  was 
great.  “  The  clergy  in  Bengal,”  Sir  John  Shore 
had  written  home  in  1795,  “  are  not  respectable 
characters.”  If  they  did  not  die  “  of  drinking 
punch  in  the  torrid  zone,”  they  were  apt  to  retire 
with  large  fortunes  amassed  in  a  surprisingly  short 
time.  The  Bishop  of  Llandaff  having  refused  a 
chaplaincy  when  at  Cambridge  thanked  God  after¬ 
wards  for  denying  him  44  an  opportunity  of  becoming 
an  Asiatic  plunderer.”  2 

1  We  know  however  from  an  appeal  published  by  Charles  Simeon 
after  Henry  Martyn’s  death,  that  on  John’s  coming  to  financial  disaster 
Henry  was  the  chief  support  of  his  brother’s  family. 

8  Bishop  Watson,  Anecdotes  of  his  Life,  p.  21. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  105 


Martyn  was  not  sanguine.  Professor  Farish 
warned  him  of  the  danger  of  “  worldly-minded¬ 
ness  ”  as  a  Company’s  servant.  He  read  Tennant’s 
India  and  decided  that  the  life  would  be  odious 
to  the  last  degree.  Then  he  turned  to  the  Bengali 
Grammar  or  to  Brainerd’s  Life  and  was  all  aflame 
to  go,  no  matter  how. 

The  business  involved  interviews  in  London  and 
visits  to  the  India  House.  There  were  journeys  to 
town  on  the  “  Telegraph  ”  coach,  which  told  an 
incredulous  public  that  it  could  travel  in  seven 
hours  from  Cambridge  to  the  City.  There  were 
visits  to  Leadenhall  Street  when  Martyn  must  go 
past  the  two  gorgeous  porters  into  the  very 
house  where  sat  a  clerk  with  a  snuff-coloured 
coat  and  an  unforgettable  smile,  by  name  Charles 
Lamb. 

Martyn  was  ushered  into  the  stately  presence  of 
Charles  Grant,  whose  mastery  of  Indian  commerce 
was  making  him  “  the  real  ruler  of  the  rulers  of 
the  east,  the  Director  of  the  Court  of  Directors,” 
but  who  none  the  less  met  with  considerable  op¬ 
position  when  he  proposed  to  send  men  of  the 
“  Methodist  ”  taint  to  India.  Between  the  business 
interviews  there  was  all  London  for  the  Cornish- 
man  to  see.  The  slight  black-clad  figure  “  called 
at  the  booksellers  ”  ;  visited  the  British  Museum  ; 
listened  to  the  Gresham  Lecture  on  Music  ;  sat  on 
a  bench  in  St  James’s  Park  beside  a  poor  man  “  of 
a  very  passionate  and  disappointed  spirit,”  into 
whose  hand  he  slipped  a  coin  ;  or  went  to  the  New 
London  Tavern  in  Cheapside  to  hear  a  farewell 
charge  given  to  the  two  young  German  missionaries 
starting  for  West  Africa.  “  I  shook  hands  and 


io6 


Henry  Martyn 


almost  wished  to  go  with  them,  but  certainly  to 
go  to  India.” 

Another  day  he  stood  at  the  gate  of  St  James’s 
to  see  the  nobility  go  to  court.  The  yellow  coaches 
rolled  past  with  turbans  and  fans,  garters  and 
swords,  to  the  dull  court  of  the  dull  old  king,  and 
Martyn  standing  on  the  pavement  wondered  at 
44  such  a  glare  of  finery  on  poor  old  shrivelled  people.” 
But  in  the  streets  where  the  44  first  gentleman  of 
Europe  ”  set  the  fashion,  temptation  waited  for 
Martyn,  for  44  him  even,”  when  arch  glances  were 
directed  at  him  and  buxom  charms  displayed.  He 
44  made  a  covenant  with  his  eyes,”  and  kept  it, 
throwing  himself  at  once  into  prayer  for  the  bold 
hussy  or  the  fine  lady  who  caught  his  eye.  44  After 
asking  of  God,  that  she  might  be  as  pure  and 
beautiful  in  her  mind  and  heart  as  in  body,  and  be 
a  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  ...  I  dare  not  harbour 
a  thought  of  an  opposite  tendency.” 

So  he  saw  the  streets  ;  but  a  social  circle  was 
waiting  too  for  Simeon’s  curate,  in  the  rural  villas 
bordering  Clapham  Common.  Charles  Grant  took 
him  down  one  afternoon  from  the  India  House, 
giving  him  upon  the  road  44  much  information  on 
the  state  of  India  ”  and  introducing  him,  in  time 
1  for  dinner,  to  William  Wilberforce,  a  wiry  bright¬ 
eyed  figure,  with  powdered  hair,  a  diamond  brooch 
in  his  linen,  and  an  eyeglass  which  he  fingered 
while  he  talked  his  unforgettable  talk,  swift-wheeling 
as  a  swallow’s  flight,  described  by  spell-bound 
listeners  as  44  vivacious,”  44  radiant,”  44  aerial.” 

Here  Martyn  found  his  welcome  in  the  innermost 
circle  of  the  men  then  fighting  the  slave-trade  and 
slashing  indeed  at  the  devil  wherever  they  per- 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  107 


ceived  him.  “  The  first  4  friends  of  the  negro,’  ” 
Mr  G.  K.  Chesterton  calls  them,  “  whose  honest 
industry  and  philanthropy  were  darkened  by  a 
religion  of  sombre  smugness,  which  almost  makes 
one  fancy  that  they  loved  the  negro  for  his  colour, 
and  would  have  turned  away  from  red  or  yellow 
men  as  needlessly  gaudy.”  The  enjoyable  sentence 
tells  a  half  truth  which  must  be  faced,  for  in  their 
own  generation  Sydney  Smith  brought  much  the 
same  taunt  against  Martyn’s  friends.1  Looked  at 
closely  the  life  on  Clapham  Common,  as  compared 
with  other  middle-class  life  of  the  day,  seems  in 
part  a  home  of  smugness  and  in  part  a  gallant 
escape  from  it. 

If  to  the  dwellers  in  Clapham  villas  theirs  was 
the  best  of  all  possible  Commons  that  is  small 
matter  for  surprise.  When  the  Bishop  of  London’s 
coach  had  orders  to  set  a  lady  down  at  the  nearest 
public-house  rather  than  be  seen  to  stop  at  Clapham 
Rectory,  the  saints  of  Clapham  were  thrown  in 
upon  one  another  by  a  mild  ostracism  from  outside. 
But  nothing  of  ennui  appears  in  the  most  intimate 
accounts  of  their  life  together. 

It  is  true  that  like  the  rest  of  their  class  they 
were  deeply  in  love  with  44  our  happy  establishment,” 
and  it  is  also  true  that  their  edifying  conversation 
was  often  expressed  in  language  of  an  almost  un¬ 
bearable  smugness  (hard  as  the  word  is  to  associate 

1  In  his  article  on  “  Indian  Missions  ”  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
April  1808,  in  which  he  is  very  funny  on  Brother  Carey’s  piety  during 
sea-sickness,  and  the  “  difficulty  of  the  Mission  in  getting  converts 
shaved  ”  occur  these  words  :  “  Ennui,  wretchedness,  melancholy, 

groans  and  sighs,  are  the  offerings  which  these  unhappy  men  make  to 
a  Deity  who  has  covered  the  earth  with  gay  colours,  and  scattered  it 
with  rich  perfumes.” 


io8 


Henry  Martyn 


with  William  Wilberforce,  that  Ariel  among  the 
reformers),  but  what  is  sometimes  forgotten  is  that 
the  possibly  less  edifying  conversation  of  countless 
other  middle  class  homes  was  expressed  in  language 
of  equal  heaviness.  A  wave  of  smugness  had 
swept  over  the  great  middle  class  in  Martyn’s 
England,  that  middle  class  which  knew  how  to 
appreciate  the  solid  unimaginative  virtue  of 
George  III  and  told  him  so  in  New  Year  Odes  : 

Still  o'er  our  fields  waves  Concord’s  silken  wing , 

Still  the  Arts  flourish,  and  the  Muses  sing  ; 

While  moral  truth  and  Faith's  celestial  ray, 

Adorn,  illume  and  bless,  a  George's  prosp'rous  sway.1 

From  this  prevailing  atmosphere  adventurous 
spirits  sought  escape.  The  Prince  of  Wales  led 
off  the  rakes  :  the  poets,  untamed  sons  of  light, 
escaped  to  shimmering  horizons  and 

.  .  .  Aereal  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses . 

The  group  among  whom  Martyn  was  now  num¬ 
bered,  knowing  no  key  to  faery  realms,  and  never  to 
find  linguistic  escape  or  shake  off  the  intellectual 
trappings  of  their  day  and  class,  yet  made  a 
spiritual  escape.  For  in  so  far  as  they  reached  vital 
contact  with  One  whom  no  man  ever  yet  accused 
of  smugness,  they  became  free  of  a  realm  where 
man  was  face  to  face  with  the  beauty  and  the  terror 
of  reality.  The  best  known  literary  work  of  the 
circle  was  Wilberforce’s  Practical  View  of  Christianity. 
He  wrote  in  prose,  and  he  set  out  to  be  “  practical  ”  ; 
but  when  a  few  men  of  the  solid  middle  class  heard 

1  Ode  for  the  New  Year  1803  by  Henry  James  Pye,  Esq.,  Poet- 
Laureate. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  109 


the  call  to  the  discipleship  taught  by  the  Lake  of 
Galilee,  incalculable  spiritual  forces  were  let  loose 
and  incalculable  elements  of  romance  broke  in  upon 
the  prevailing  smugness.  44  It  is  probable  that 
Pietism  in  Germany  and  the  Evangelical  movement 
in  England  did  much  to  prepare  the  ground  for  the 
reception — perhaps  even  for  the  creation — of  the 
new  spirit  that  was  coming  into  poetry.”  1 

For  Christianity  even  at  Clapham  made  room 
in  life  for  spiritual  adventure.  They  spoke  smugly, 
but  their  souls  knew  how  to  worship  and  to  dare. 
Granville  Sharp  the  ordnance  clerk  44  sat  at  his 
desk  with  a  soul  as  distended  as  that  of  a  Paladin 
bestriding  his  warhorse,”  2  and  being  persuaded  that 
America  was  right  in  her  War  of  Independence 
threw  away  his  livelihood  rather  than  copy  the 
account  of  a  cargo  of  munitions  which  had  been 
used  against  her.  Young  Clarkson  wrote  a  Latin 
Essay  for  a  university  prize,  on  the  set  subject 
44  Is  it  right  to  make  slaves  of  other  men  against 
their  will  ?  ”  No  doubt  his  periods  were  smug 
enough,  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  shelter  under 
phrases.  “  If  the  contents  of  my  essay  are  true,” 
he  cried,  44  it  is  time  some  one  should  see  these 
calamities  to  their  end,”  and  forthwith  threw  him¬ 
self  into  a  lifelong  grapple  with  vested  interests 
and  semi-sacred  institutions.  In  Parliament  the 
group  were  known  as  44  men  who  looked  to  the 
facts  of  the  case  and  not  to  the  wishes  of  the 
minister.”  3 

Their  interests  were  far-flung.  Now  it  is  a 

1  C.  E.  Vaughan  in  The  Cambridge  Modern  History ,  Vol.  VII.  p.  826. 

*  Stephen,  Essays  in  Ecclesiastical  Biography. 

*  Trevelyan,  Lift  and  Letters  of  Lord  Macaulay ,  p.  71. 


I  IO 


Henry  Martyn 


crusade  against  bull-baiting,  now  provision  for 
widows  of  the  fallen  in  the  Napoleonic  Wars,  now 
a  translation  of  the  Bible  into  Arabic.  Marty n’s 
first  evening  at  Clapham  was  spent  in  conversation 
about  India — “  They  wished  me  to  fill  the  Church 
in  Calcutta  very  much,” — and  in  questioning  a 
Mr  Richard  Johnson  from  New  South  Wales  as 
to  what  could  be  done  for  the  convict  centre  at 
Botany  Bay,  left  for  sixteen  years  without  moral 
or  spiritual  care.1 

So  Martyn  joined  the  group  and  fell  like  the 
rest  of  them  under  the  spell  of  Wilberforce’s  voice 
of  rare  cadences.  That  was  a  red-letter  day  when 
he  dined  alone  with  Wilberforce  at  Palace  Yard. 

It  was  very  agreeable,  as  there  was  no  one  else. 
Speaking  of  the  slave  trade  .  .  .  and  found  my  heart 
so  affected  that  I  could  with  difficulty  refrain  from  tears. 
.  .  .  Went  with  Mr  W.  to  the  House  of  Commons,  where 
I  was  surprised  and  charmed  with  Mr  Pitt’s  eloquence. 

They  introduced  him,  too,  to  old  John  Newton, 
the  friend  of  Cowper,  now  the  Nestor  of  the 
evangelicals,  widowed  and  blind,  but  with  un¬ 
diminished  courage  and  a  pawky  humour. 

Breakfasted  with  the  venerable  Mr  Newton.  .  .  .  He 
said  he  had  heard  of  a  clever  gardener,  who  would  sow 
the  seeds  when  the  meat  was  put  down  to  roast,  and 
engage  to  produce  a  salad  by  the  time  it  was  ready, 
but  the  Lord  did  not  sow  oaks  in  this  way.  .  .  .  When 
I  spoke  of  the  opposition  that  I  should  be  likely  to  meet 
with,  he  said  he  supposed  Satan  would  not  love  me  for 
what  I  was  about  to  do. 

1  Through  the  influence  of  Wilberforce  with  Pitt  this  same  Mr  Johnson 
was  appointed  first  chaplain  to  Botany  Bay,  and  Mr  Thornton  of 
Clapham  took  him  to  Woolwich  and  introduced  him  to  a  flock  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  convicts  on  one  of  the  hulks  there. 


A  Curacy  among  the  Evangelicals  1 1 1 


On  one  of  these  London  visits  Martyn,  having 
just  reached  the  age  of  twenty-four,  was  ordained 
priest  at  the  Chapel  Royal,  St  James’s.  “  A  solemn 
ordinance  to  me  .  .  .  yet  very  little  like  what  it 
ought  to  be.”  He  was  now  ready  at  any  time  to 
obey  a  summons  to  India,  but  it  was  not  till  three 
months  later  that  he  wrote  in  his  journal  : 

April  2,  1805.  Went  with  Mr  Grant  towards  the 
India  House.  He  said  that  he  was  that  day  about  to 
take  the  necessary  steps  for  bringing  forward  the  business 
of  the  chaplains,  and  that  by  to-morrow  night  I  should 
know  whether  I  could  go  or  not. 

Next  day  : 

Going  to  Mr  Grant’s  I  found  that  the  chaplaincies  had 
been  agreed  to  after  two  hours’  debate,  and  some  obloquy 
thrown  upon  Mr  Grant  by  the  Chairman  for  his  con¬ 
nexion  with  Mr  Wilberforce,  and  those  people.  Mr 
Grant  said  that  though  my  nomination  had  not  taken 
place,  the  case  was  now  beyond  danger. 

Mr  Grant  little  understood  with  what  hidden 
distaste  the  chaplaincy  was  accepted.  “  I  could 
have  been  infinitely  better  pleased  to  have  gone 
out  as  a  missionary,  poor  as  the  Lord  and  His 
apostles,”  Martyn  confided  to  his  journal.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  it  was  true.  To  the  man  inspired 
by  David  Brainerd  the  acceptance  of  a  handsome 
salary  and  the  obligations  of  Government  service 
were  no  alleviation  but  an  addition  to  the  difficulties 
of  his  path. 

Martyn  decided  to  leave  Cambridge  at  once  and 
take  up  his  abode  in  London,  serving  as  temporary 
curate  to  Mr  Cecil  in  Bloomsbury  and  holding 
himself  in  readiness  for  orders  to  proceed  to  India 
with  the  summer  fleet. 


I  12 


Henry  Martyn 


On  Palm  Sunday  five  days  later,  he  rode  out  to 
Lol worth  for  the  last  time  and  preached  his  fare¬ 
well  sermon  to  his  country  folk.  There  were 
partings  afterwards  at  the  church  door. 

An  old  farmer  of  a  neighbouring  parish,  as  he  was 
taking  leave  of  me,  turned  aside  to  shed  tears  ;  this 
affected  me  more  than  anything.  Rode  away  with  my 
heart  heavy. 

At  night  he  must  preach  his  last  sermon  to 
Mr  Simeon’s  crowded  congregation  at  Trinity  Church. 
“  I  prayed  over  the  whole  of  my  sermon  for  the 
evening,”  he  writes.  When  he  stood  up  he  read 
as  his  text  : 

Thou,  O  Lord  of  Hosts,  God  of  Israel,  hast  revealed  to 
Thy  servant  saying,  I  will  build  thee  an  house.  .  .  .  Now 
let  it  please  Thee  to  bless  the  house  of  Thy  servant,  that 
it  may  continue  for  ever  before  Thee  :  for  Thou,  O  Lord 
God,  hast  spoken  it :  and  with  Thy  blessing  let  the  house 
of  Thy  servant  be  blessed  for  ever.1 

The  listeners  felt  the  poignancy  of  such  words 
of  settled  permanence  from  one  passing  out  from 
among  them  after  so  brief  a  sojourn,  impelled  in 
spirit  to  some  pilgrim  course.  It  was  not  usual 
in  1805  for  the  people  to  stand  as  the  clergy  left 
the  church,  but  that  night,  when  Martyn  went  out, 
the  kneeling  people  rose  as  one  man  and  turned 
to  watch  his  figure  down  the  aisle. 


1  1  Chronicles  xvii.  25-27. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  LOVER 

I  find  a  pleasing  mournfulness  of  spirit  to-night. — Lydia 
Grenfell’s  Diary,  November  19,  1803. 

Passed  a  happy  morning  reading  Edwards  on  the  Affections. — 
Lydia  Grenfell’s  Diary,  November  15,  1804. 

On  Monday  in  Holy  Week  1805  Martyn  left  Cam¬ 
bridge.  “  A  great  many,”  he  says,  “  accompanied 
me  to  the  coach  which  took  me  up  at  the  end  of 
the  town  ;  it  was  a  thick,  misty  morning,  so  the 
University,  with  its  towers  and  spires,  was  out  of 
sight  in  an  instant.” 

The  Cambridge  chapter  was  ended,  but  there 
was  another  farewell  which  cost  him  more  ;  for 
Henry  Martyn  was  in  love. 

He  had  discovered  it  nine  months  before,  during 
a  summer  visit  to  Cornwall,  when  although  he  did 
not  know  how  soon  the  way  to  India  might  be 
opened,  he  regarded  himself  as  among  his  own  folk 
for  the  last  time.  It  was  a  crowded  visit.  He 
must  say  good-bye  to  his  sisters  and  to  all  the 
clan  of  cousins  and  cousinly  friends.  He  must 
preach  too  in  the  churches  which  they  opened  to 
him,  though  not  in  the  church  of  his  baptism, 
since  he  was  deeply  tainted  with  “  Methodism,” 
and  his  old  schoolmaster,  hitherto  proud  of  his  pupil, 
now  led  the  outcry  against  his  pernicious  views.1 

1  The  heated  feelings  of  the  day  are  hard  to  picture  now.  One  of 
the  Cornish  clergy  who  speaks  of  Martyn  as  “  this  poor  deluded  en- 

TT  U3 


Henry  Martyn 


114 


It  was  not  permitted  me  to  occupy  the  pulpit  of  my 
native  town.  .  .  .  The  clergy  seemed  to  have  united 
to  exclude  me  from  their  churches,  so  that  I  must  now 
be  contented  with  my  brother-in-law’s  two  little  churches 
about  five  miles  from  Truro. 


Kenwyn,  which  had  welcomed  John  Wesley,  had 
a  welcome  for  Henry  Martyn,  and  when  he  preached 
there  in  the  church  among  the  trees  through  whose 
branches  you  peer  down  over  the  Truro  house-tops, 
the  people  of  the  city  came  up  the  hill  to  hear  him. 
“  The  church  at  Kenwyn  was  quite  full,  many 
outside,  and  many  obliged  to  go  away.  At  first 
beginning  the  service  I  felt  very  uneasy  from  the 
number  of  people  gazing,  but  my  peace  soon 
returned.” 

Another  church  was  open  to  Martyn  in  the  ancient 
town  of  Marazion  that  looks  sleepily  from  among 
its  yellow  sea  poppies  to  St  Michael’s  Mount,  the 
trysting-place  of  Cornish  legend  and  Cornish  history. 
Marazion  church  was  then  a  chapel-of-ease  under 
the  care  of  Martyn’s  cousin  Malachy  Hitchins,  who 
lived  two  miles  away  on  a  wooded  hill-top  beside 
the  church  of  St  Hilary  with  its  whitewashed  spire, 
a  landmark  to  the  ships  that  made  for  Falmouth 
or  Penzance.  Here  in  the  Vicarage  garden  with 


thusiast  ”  wrote  a  tract  on  the  Methodists,  divided  under  the  following 


headings  : 

Ignorance  with  Itching  Ears 

Prevarications 

Lying 

Hypocrisy 

Knavery 

Contempt  of  the  Regular  Clergy 
An  Intractable  and  Revengeful 
Spirit 

Political  Restlessness 


Vainglory 

Uncharitablenesa 

Profaneness 

Uncleanness 

The  Spirit  of  Family  Discord 
Freakishness  and  Distraction 
and 

Insanity 


The  Lover 


1 15 

Cousin  Tom  Hitchins  a  few  years  older  than 
himself  44  all  the  happier  hours  ”  of  Martyn’s  boy¬ 
hood  had  been  spent. 

Their  walks  and  rides  had  been  shared  by  a  young 
brood  of  Grenfells  from  a  square  house  in  Marazion 
Street,  children  of  the  Commissary  for  the  States 
of  Holland  in  the  ancient  port  of  Penzance.  When 
Cousin  Tom  Hitchins  grew  up  he  married  one  of 
the  Grenfell  maidens,  and  Tom  and  his  Emma  at 
Plymouth  Dock  were  among  Martyn’s  dearest 
friends.  The  rest  of  the  Grenfell  family  were  now 
established  in  life  :  the  eldest  son,  the  pride  of 
the  house,  a  Member  of  Parliament  in  Buckingham¬ 
shire  ;  the  girls,  with  one  exception,  settled  in  homes 
of  their  own  in  Cornwall,  partly,  it  was  said,  through 
the  energies  of  their  stirring  and  practical  mother, 
Mrs  Mary  Grenfell.  The  one  exception  was  the 
youngest  daughter  Lydia,  whose  love  story  had 
come  to  grief,  and  who  now  at  the  ripe  age  (very 
ripe  for  those  days)  of  thirty  was  still  at  home, 
a  steady  annoyance  to  her  matter-of-fact  mother 
because  of  her  Methodistical  leanings  and  inclination 
to  pious  brooding.  It  rarely  occurred  to  the  matron 
of  the  day  that  a  daughter  of  thirty  was  old  enough 
to  make  her  own  decisions,  and  Lydia,  when  the 
maternal  fiat  went  forth,  refrained  from  attending 
the  Methodist  meeting-house  that  was  for  her  the 
gate  of  heaven,  but  did  not  refrain  from  confiding 
her  yearnings  and  sorrows  to  a  religious  diary. 

Mr  Hitchins  asked  Henry  Martyn  to  Marazion  for 
old  times’  sake,  and  on  the  Sunday  which  he  spent 
there  he  made  the  discovery  of  his  love  for  Lydia. 

At  St  Hilary  Church  in  the  morning,  my  thoughts 
wandered  from  the  service  and  I  suffered  the  keenest 


Henry  Martyn 


1 16 


disappointment.  Miss  Lydia  Grenfell  did  not  come.  .  .  . 
Called  after  tea  on  Miss  Lydia  Grenfell  and  walked  with 

her  and  - ,  conversing  on  spiritual  subjects.  All  the 

rest  of  the  evening  and  at  night  I  could  not  keep  her  out  of 
my  mind.  I  felt  too  plainly  that  I  loved  her  passionately. 

The  discovery  was  overwhelming.  It  was  im¬ 
possible  for  a  Henry  Martyn  to  be  a  lukewarm  lover. 
Yet  this  new  love  and  his  vocation  seemed  to 
him  in  deadly  rivalry.  To  him  the  missionary  call 
meant  probable  hardship  and  banishment  for  life. 
Supposing  she  could  love  him,  could  he  involve  his 
Lydia  in  this  ? 

True,  there  was  the  chance  of  an  East  Indian 
chaplaincy  ;  but  that  was  yet  in  the  air.  He  had 
lost  his  patrimony.  His  family  needed  his  help. 
What  had  he  to  offer  a  bride,  or  a  bride’s  very 
practical  mother,  unless  he  were  to  forsake  his 
missionary  vocation,  and  settle  down  at  Cambridge,  or 
perhaps  in  a  college  living  ?  A  country  rectory  with 
Lydia,  and  a  quiet  study,  and  children  in  the  garden  ! 

But  no. 

The  direct  opposition  of  this  to  my  devotedness  to 
God  in  the  missionary  way,  excited  no  small  tumult  in 
my  mind.  ...  At  night  I  continued  an  hour  and  a 
half  in  prayer,  striving  against  this  attachment.  .  .  . 
One  while  I  was  about  to  triumph,  but  in  a  moment  my 
heart  had  wandered  to  the  beloved  idol.  I  went  to  bed 
in  great  pain,  yet  still  rather  superior  to  the  enemy ; 
but  in  dreams  her  image  returned,  and  I  awoke  in  the 
night,  with  my  mind  full  of  her. 

His  sense  of  vocation  and  his  love  grappled  in 
deadlock.  Next  morning  the  call  to  sacrifice  was 
uppermost.  44 1  again  devoted  myself  to  the  Lord, 
and  with  more  of  my  will  than  last  night.”  He 
took  horse  and  rode  away  from  St  Hilary. 


The  Lover 


1 17 


But  there  was  yet  a  month  to  spend  in  Cornwall, 
a  month  when  he  was  near  her,  and  would  hear 
friends  speak  of  her,  when  a  ride  across  the  hawthorn- 
dotted  uplands  brought  him  to  her  door.  An  old 
friend,  knowing  nothing  of  his  inner  tumult,  gave 
him  Thomas  a  Kempis  as  a  parting  gift.  The  book 
was  new  to  Martyn  and  daily  during  that  month 
he  read  it,  sometimes  in  a  cave  on  the  Cornish 
coast  and  sometimes  late  at  night,  drinking  in  its 
spirit  of  surrender. 

At  the  end  of  August  came  his  farewell  to  St 
Hilary.  Lydia  Grenfell’s  diary  on  August  26th, 
1804,  tells  us  that  she  heard  44  H.  M.  preach  a  precious 
sermon.”  Martyn’s  on  the  same  day  omits  the 
sermon  but  tells  of  the  evening  when  he  44  walked 
with  Mr  Grenfell  and  Lydia  up  the  hill,  with  the 
most  beautiful  prospect  of  the  sea,  but  I  was  un¬ 
happy  from  feeling  the  attachment  to  Lydia,  for 
I  was  unwilling  to  leave  her.” 

The  next  day  was  the  last.  There  was  a  ride  to 
a  cottage,  printed  for  ever  on  his  memory  and  re¬ 
ferred  to  again  and  again.  Five  miles  by  wren- 
haunted  lanes  or  over  uplands  with  the  peewits 
calling  and  the  soft,  large  sea-winds  buffeting,  and 
Lydia  at  his  side. 

Rode  with  Lydia  to  an  old  man,  five  miles  off.  .  .  . 
When  we  arrived  the  old  man  was  out,  but  his  sister, 
a  blind  woman  of  seventy,  was  confined  to  her  bed.  .  .  . 
Lydia  and  myself  said  everything  we  could  to  cheer 
her.  .  .  .  When  the  old  man  arrived  we  formed  a  little 
circle  before  the  door,  under  the  trees,  and  he  conversed 
.  .  .  concerning  the  things  of  God.  I  then  read  Psalm 
lxxxiv.  (How  amiable  are  thy  tabernacles,  O  Lord).  Our 
ride  home  was  delightful. 

He  spent  that  afternoon  alone  with  his  love. 


1 18 


Henry  Martyn 


Reading  in  the  afternoon  to  Lydia  alone,  from  Dr 
Watts,  there  happened  to  be  among  other  things  a  prayer 
on  entire  preference  of  God  to  the  creature.  Now, 
thought  I,  here  am  I  in  the  presence  of  God,  and  my  idol. 
So  I  used  the  prayer  for  myself,  and  addressed  it  to  God, 
who  answered  it  I  think,  for  my  love  was  kindled  to  God 
and  to  divine  things.  ...  I  continued  conversing  with 
her,  generally  with  my  heart  in  heaven,  but  every  now 
and  then  resting  on  her.  Parted  with  Lydia,  perhaps 
for  ever  in  this  life,  with  a  sort  of  uncertain  pain,  which 
I  knew  would  increase  to  greater  violence. 

So  he  walked  away  44  dwelling  at  large  on  the 
excellence  of  Lydia,”  and  for  the  kingdom  of 
heaven’s  sake  he  had  not  breathed  his  love.  But 
it  was  not  therefore  unknown.  A  part  of  that 
“  holy  simplicity  ”  which  his  friends  all  attribute 
to  Martyn  was  a  transparency  which  neither  could 
nor  would  hide  from  their  eyes  the  adventures  of 
his  heart. 

And  what  of  the  lady  ? 

Lydia  Grenfell,  carrying  soup  to  cottages,  or 
transcribing  hymns  for  favoured  friends,  had  a 
heart  that  brooded  on  its  own  love  story.  The  year 
1800  when  she  was  twenty-five  had  been  the 
momentous  year  of  her  life.  She  then  became 
engaged  to  the  man  of  her  heart,  a  solicitor  of 
Penzance,  Mr  Samuel  John,  44  to  whom  her  heart 
was  more  closely  united  than  to  any  earthly  object.” 
In  the  same  year  too  she  experienced  a  conversion, 
and  became  a  devout  believer,  drawing  her  in¬ 
spiration  from  the  homely  warmth  of  44  the  people 
called  Methodists.”  Before  the  end  of  the  year 
she  had  discovered  that  her  betrothed  was  an 
impossible  scoundrel.  She  broke  off  the  engage¬ 
ment,  but  she  could  not  break  her  lcve.  Her  diary 


The  Lover  ng 

shows  a  mind  turned  inward  upon  its  own  distresses  ; 
unguided  self-examination  run  to  seed ;  genuine 
religion  mixed  with  morbid  scruple  and  brooding 
sentiment.  In  a  home  with  her  active  managing 
mother  there  were  few  demands  on  her  powers. 
She  was  only  too  free  to  yearn  and  to  renounce 
with  a  daily  glow  of  pious  sentiment,  44  hoping  for 
pardon  ”  for  her  44  broken  vows  ”  to  her  betrothed,  • 
and  blaming  herself  for  every  bad  story  that  she 
heard  of  him  whom  she  yet  loved.  Those  44  broken 
vows  ”  seemed  to  her  to  render  any  other  marriage 
a  spiritual  adultery.  While  Samuel  John  remained 
unmarried  Lydia  Grenfell  told  herself  that  she  was 
bound  to  maidenhood.  Nothing  but  his  marriage 
could  free  her. 

Six  months  before  Marty  n’s  appearance  Mr  John 
had  announced  his  engagement  to  a  London  lady, 
and  Lydia’s  diary  shows  that  she  received  her 
freedom  with  a  pang. 

February  2 5th,  1804.  My  slumbers  last  night  were 
distracted  on  his  account,  and  through  the  day  he  has 
much  occupied  my  thoughts — too  much — but  now  duty 
will,  I  trust,  compel  me  to  turn  from  one  who  will  soon 
be  united  to  another. 

March  5th.  I  now  enter  into  a  resolution  and  engage¬ 
ment  from  this  hour  to  resist  the  temptation  of  employing 
my  thoughts  on  one  whom  I  must  cease  to  love. 

That  summer,  to  a  Lydia  daily  expecting  the 
undesired  freedom  that  would  be  hers  with  her 
first  lover’s  marriage  ;  solacing  herself  with  abstracts 
of  sermons  or  with  prayers  by  cottage  death-beds  ; 
a  Lydia  aged  thirty  and  believing  that  for  her 
romance  was  over,  to  such  a  Lydia  came  Henry 
Martyn,  transparently  and  reverentially  in  love. 


120 


Henry  Martyn 


July  25th.  I  was  surprised  this  morning  by  a  visit 
from  H.  M. 

August  Sth.  I  was  surprised  again  to-day  by  a  visit 
from  my  friend. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  her  surprise  was  genuine. 
He  was  remembered  as  a  boy  cousin,  or  all  but  a 
cousin,  six  years  younger  than  herself,  a  vast  chasm 
of  years  when  boys  and  girls  play  together.  She 
knew  that  he  too,  a  year  later  than  herself,  had 
experienced  conversion ;  and  she  knew  of  his 
Cambridge  honours.  Tom  Hitchins,  her  sister’s 
husband,  and  old  Mr  Malachy,  himself  an  astronomer, 
would  not  fail  to  blazon  forth  their  cousin’s  prowess. 
Now  he  returned,  with  the  romance  upon  him  of 
one  dedicated  to  a  lonely  pilgrimage.  And  he 
preached  such  a  sermon  as  her  soul  found  44  precious,” 
and  spoke  to  her  with  tremulous  eagerness  of  the 
joys  of  the  life  to  come.  And  there  was  no  mis¬ 
taking  the  light  in  his  eyes. 

But  her  first  love,  the  habit  of  years,  could  not 
be  suddenly  replaced  by  an  equal  feeling  for  one 
who  till  lately  had  seemed  merely  a  boy  cousin  who 
did  well  at  books.  Yet  to  a  woman  still  starved 
of  affection  while  her  sisters  ruled  their  homes, 
such  reverent  devotion  was  very  sweet.  She  talked 
it  out  with  Emma,  her  good  sister,  connected  by 
marriage  with  the  Martyn  family.  The  upshot  of 
the  consultation  was  that  Martyn,  passing  through 
Plymouth  on  his  way  from  Cornwall,  was  told  by 
Cousin  Emma  4  4  that  his  attachment  to  her  sister 
was  not  altogether  unreturned.” 

Such  news  to  a  Martyn,  who  for  the  kingdom 
of  heaven’s  sake  was  leaving  Cornwall  with  his 
love  untold,  brought  44  both  pleasure  and  pain.” 


The  Lover 


I  2  I 


Next  day  he  went  on  by  coach  to  Exeter.  “  My 
thoughts  were  almost  wholly  occupied  with  Lydia, 
though  not  in  a  spirit  of  departure  from  God,  for 
I  considered  myself  as  in  His  hands.” 

A  young  attorney  on  the  coach  claimed  his 
attention,  one  who  said  that  he  “  knew  the  necessity 
of  a  change,  but  could  not  begin.”  While  they 
changed  horses  the  two  went  into  a  garden,  and 
sat  by  some  water  on  the  grass  slopes  reading  the 
23rd  Psalm. 

Martyn’s  spirit  was  regaining  buoyancy.  As  they 
drove  out  of  Bath,  early  on  a  harvest  morning, 
“  Nothing  seemed  desirable  but  to  glorify  God.” 
So  he  returned  to  his  last  months  under  Simeon, 
telling  himself  that  the  love  story  was  over.  “  My 
dear  Lydia  and  my  duty  call  me  different  ways, 
yet  God  hath  not  forsaken  me  but  strengthened 
me.  ...  At  chapel  my  soul  ascended  to  God, 
and  the  sight  of  a  picture  at  the  altar,  of  John  the 
Baptist  preaching  in  the  wilderness,  animated  me 
exceedingly  to  devotedness  to  the  life  of  a 
missionary.” 

But  a  great  love  refused  so  soon  to  be  deposed. 
They  gave  him  an  East  India  chaplaincy  with  a 
salary  that  would  keep  Sally  and  a  bride  as  well. 
And  they  showed  him  a  letter  from  David  Brown 
saying,  “  Let  him  marry  and  come  out  at  once.” 
And  then  there  was  always  that  word  of  Cousin 
Emma’s  about  an  attachment  “  not  altogether 
unreturned.” 

Was  all  this  further  temptation  or  was  it  an 
indication  of  his  path  ?  Tossed  in  spirit  he  wrote 
through  Cousin  Emma  to  beg  for  the  honour  of 
Lydia’s  correspondence.  But  no  letter  came  from 


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Henry  Martyn 


Lydia.  She  on  her  part  was  waiting  with  all  her 
old  morbid  scruple  for  a  letter  to  say  that  her  first 
love  was  safely  married.  And  Mr  John,  as  if  to 
tantalize  her,  still  deferred  his  wedding.  Martyn 
was  44  keenly  disappointed  at  finding  no  letter 
from  Lydia,”  yet  inclined  to  agree  with  Simeon, 
himself  unmarried,  who  44  said  he  wished  me  to  be 
properly  a  missionary  dead  to  the  world.  ...  I 
thought  of  my  dear  Lydia  when  he  said  this.” 

Between  them  the  saints  tore  him  in  pieces  with 
contrary  advice.  Mr  Cecil  44  said  I  should  be  acting 
like  a  madman  if  I  went  out  unmarried.  A  wife 
would  supply  by  her  comfort  and  counsel  the  entire 
want  of  society.”  44  Mr  Atkinson,  whose  opinion 
I  revere,  was  against  my  marrying.”  A  letter  from 
Mr  Simeon  64  immediately  convinced  me  of  the 
expediency  of  celibacy.”  44  Mr  Pratt  coming  in 
argued  strongly  on  the  other  side.”  44 1  could 
attend  to  nothing  else.”  What  lover  could  ? 

My  heart  was  sometimes  ready  to  break  with  agony, 
at  being  torn  from  its  dearest  idol ;  and  at  other  times 
I  was  visited  by  a  few  moments  of  sublime  and  enraptured 
joy.  Such  is  the  conflict :  why  have  my  friends  mentioned 
this  subject  ?  It  has  tom  open  old  wounds. 

The  time  came  to  sail,  and  the  celibates  had  it. 
He  sent  to  Emma  and  to  Lydia  each  a  keepsake, 
44  a  little  Pilgrim’s  Progress  enclosed  in  the  tea- 
caddy,”  and  set  off  to  join  the  East  India  fleet 
at  Portsmouth,  riding  on  the  way  to  Sargent’s 
Sussex  home  to  bid  his  friend  good-bye. 

July  10 tht  1805.  I  went  to  Portsmouth,  where  we 
arrived  to  breakfast,  and  found  friends  from  Cambridge. 

Sargent,  newly  married,  felt  that  he  must  see  the 


The  Lover 


123 


last  of  that  lonely  figure  and  rode  down  from 
Midhurst  to  Martyn’s  Portsmouth  inn,  to  find  him 
surrounded  by  “  numerous  friends  ”  from  Cambridge 
and  London,  led  by  Simeon  himself,  who  was  deeply 
stirred,  and  with  his  usual  energy  despatched  Bibles 
for  distribution  on  Martyn’s  ship,  and  gave  him  a 
keepsake  of  a  massive  volume  weighing  11  lb.  11  oz. 
from  himself,  and  a  silver  compass  from  his  Cam¬ 
bridge  hearers  who  arranged  that  the  day  of  his 
sailing  should  be  set  apart  by  them  for  fast  and 
prayer. 

July  1 6th.  The  Commodore  called  at  the  inn  to  desire 
that  all  persons  might  be  awakened,  as  the  fleet  would 
sail  to-day.  We  went  immediately  to  the  quay  ;  but 
after  waiting  five  hours  Mr  Simeon  took  his  last  leave  of 
me,  [at  a  long  farewell  it  was  Simeon’s  way  to  take  his 
friend’s  hand  in  both  of  his  and  raise  it  to  his  lips]  and  the 
rest  accompanied  me  on  board. 

A  “triumphal  occasion,”  Sargent  called  the 
moment  of  parting. 

But  even  this  was  not  the  end  of  his  farewells. 
“  To  my  no  small  surprise  I  found  we  were  bound 
to  Falmouth.”  The  news  brought  a  torturing  bliss. 
He  was  to  see  Cornwall  again  and  to  come  once 
again  within  reach  of  Lydia.  Was  it  that  he  might 
win  her  ? 

In  three  days’  time  the  fleet  dropped  anchor 
in  the  great  harbour  which  “  braggeth  that  a 
hundred  sail  of  ships  may  anchor  within  his  circuit, 
and  no  one  of  them  see  the  other’s  top.”  “  I  seemed 
to  be  entirely  at  home,”  said  Marty n,  “  the  scene 
about  me  was  so  familiar,  and  my  friends  so  near.” 
The  fleet  was  delayed  day  after  day.  Shore  visits 
were  possible,  and  “  after  much  deliberation  ”  he 


124 


Henry  Martyn 


decided  to  go  to  Marazion  and  tell  his  love  and  ask 
his  Lydia  if  she  could  bring  herself  to  come  to  him 
in  India. 

He  went  on  the  early  mail,  and  did  ever  another 
lover  in  such  case  find  leisure  to  speak  to  the  coach¬ 
men  about  the  welfare  of  their  souls  ? 

I  arrived  at  Marazion  in  time  for  breakfast  and  met 
my  beloved  Lydia.  In  the  course  of  the  morning  I 
walked  with  her  ...  with  much  confusion  I  declared 
my  affection  for  her,  with  the  intention  of  learning 
whether,  if  I  saw  it  right  in  India  to  be  married,  she  would 
come  out ;  but  she  would  not  declare  her  sentiments. 
She  said  that  the  shortness  of  arrangement  was  an 
obstacle,  even  if  all  others  were  removed. 

“  She  would  not  declare  her  sentiments  :  ”  but 
she  copied  a  hymn  for  her  lover. 

As  I  was  coming  on  board  this  morning,  and  reading 
Mr  Serle’s  hymn  you  wrote  out  for  me,  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind  blew  it  into  the  sea.  I  made  the  boatmen 
immediately  heave  to,  and  recovered  it. 

To  Cousin  Emma,  Lydia’s  sister,  and  so  far  the 
encouraging  confidante  of  Henry’s  love,  he  wrote  : 

The  consequence  of  my  Marazion  journey  is,  that  I  am 
enveloped  in  gloom.  May  He  give  me  grace  to  turn 
cheerfully  to  my  proper  work  and  business.  .  .  .  Another 
consequence  of  my  journey  is,  that  I  love  Lydia  more 
than  ever. 

There  were  yet  one  or  two  more  meetings,  and 
at  the  last  a  hurried  parting,  when  as  he  sat  reading 
to  his  lady  and  her  mother  a  servant  came  in  with 
news  that  the  fleet  had  immediate  sailing  orders 
and  a  horse  was  at  the  door  that  he  might  catch 
his  ship. 

“  It  came  upon  me  like  a  thunderbolt.  Lydia  was 


The  Lover 


125 


evidently  painfully  affected  by  it ;  she  came  out, 
that  we  might  be  alone  at  taking  leave.”  There 
at  the  door  he  told  her  that  if  it  seemed  right  for 
him  to  marry  she  must  not  be  offended  at  receiving 
a  letter  from  India. 

“  In  the  great  hurry  she  discovered  more  of  her 
mind  than  she  intended  ;  she  made  no  objection 
whatever  to  coming  out.”  But  “  you  had  better 
go  out  free,”  she  stipulated,  implying,  he  thought, 
that  the  freedom  need  not  be  for  ever.  There  was 
no  time  to  ask  her  to  explain  herself.  He  mounted 
and  galloped  away,  reaching  Falmouth  by  the  aid 
of  relays  of  horses  just  as  his  ship  was  getting  under 
way. 

Next  morning  being  Sunday,  he  held  a  service 
on  the  deck.  As  he  read  the  words,  “  But  now 
they  desire  a  better  country,  that  is  an  heavenly,” 
St  Michael’s  Mount  and  St  Hilary  spire  and  trees 
were  fast  fading  from  sight.  His  letter  to  Cousin 
Emma  still  showed  a  lover’s  interest  in  those  re¬ 
ceding  hills. 

Lydia  I  knew  was  about  that  time  at  St  Hilary.  If 
you  have  heard  from  Marazion  since  Sunday  I  should  be 
curious  to  know  whether  the  fleet  was  observed  passing. 
.  .  .  Do  not  forget  to  tell  me  as  much  as  you  can  about 
Lydia. 

The  fleet  was  so  long  held  up  in  the  Cove  of 
Cork  that  Martyn  had  Cousin  Emma’s  answer  there. 
Her  letter  is  not  preserved.  But  it  told  him  more 
of  Lydia  than  she  herself  had  let  him  know,  for 
it  explained  that  his  lady  who  had  said  him  neither 
yea  nor  nay,  was  still  held  back  by  some  insuperable 
obstacle.  From  later  letters  it  would  seem  that 
the  obstacle  was  a  double  one.  Her  own  obstinate 


126 


HeMry  Martyn 


scruple  against  a  second  engagement  before  her 
former  lover’s  marriage  (and  the  exasperating  person 
delayed  his  wedding  until  1810)  was  added  to  the 
difficulty  of  obtaining  Mrs  Grenfell’s  consent  to  her 
faring  forth  to  the  terribly  remote  East  Indies  to 
marry  a  man  as  “  methodistical  ”  as  herself  and 
(who  can  gainsay  the  motherly  prudence  ?)  showing 
signs  already  to  observant  eyes  of  the  consumptive 
tendency  now  making  itself  seen  in  both  his  sisters. 

Henry  Maityn  was  ill  prepared  for  the  letter. 
Lydia’s  hesitaung  farewell  speech  had  left  him 
sanguine.  But  he  was  loyal  to  his  lady,  though 
his  reply  to  Cousin  Emma  breathed  more  serenity 
than  he  could  always  feel. 

Whatever  others  have  said,  I  think  that  Lydia  acts 
no  more  than  consistently  by  persevering  in  her  present 
determination.  I  confess,  therefore,  that  till  this  obstacle 
is  removed  my  path  is  perfectly  clear,  and  blessed  be  God  ! 
I  feel  very,  very  happy  in  all  that  my  God  shall  order 
concerning  me.  .  .  .  The  Lord  teaches  me  to  desire  Christ 
for  my  all  in  all  .  .  .  surely  the  soul  is  happy  that  thus 
breathes  in  a  medium  of  love  ? 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  NINE  MONTHS  AT  SEA 

Common  parlancy  won’t  do  with  a  common  seaman.  It  is  not 
here  as  in  the  Scriptures,  “  Do  this  and  he  doeth  it ;  ”  (by  the  bye 
that  chap  must  have  had  his  soldiers  in  tight  order)  but  it  is,  “  Do 
this  d - n  your  eyes  ”  and  then  it  is  done  directly. 

The  ship  lurched,  did  it  ?  .  .  .  and  pray  Mr  Cooper  why  has 
heaven  granted  you  two  legs  with  joints  at  the  knees  ?  .  .  .  There 
take  that,  you  contaminating,  stage-dubbing,  gimlet-carrying 
quintessence  of  a  bung-hole  ! — 

Mr  Chucks  the  boatswain  in  Captain  Marryatt’s  Peter  Simple. 

I  am  born  for  God  only.  Christ  is  nearer  to  me  than  father  or 
mother  or  sister — a  nearer  relative,  a  more  intimate  friend  ;  and 
I  rejoice  to  follow  Him  and  to  love  Him. — Journal  of  Henry 
Martyn  on  board  the  Union  Transport. 

That  summer  of  1805  the  beacons  were  in  train  on 
all  the  south  coast  heights,  to  give  warning  in  case 
the  French  fleet  sailed  out  of  Brest  for  the  invasion 
of  England.  Sir  Home  Popham,  the  Commodore 
who  was  to  convoy  the  East  India  fleet,  was  held 
up  in  Cork  Harbour  in  case  his  ships  were  needed 
to  do  battle  against  invaders,  and  every  man  in 
the  convoy  was  given  his  battle  station — Martyn’s 
to  be  “  with  the  surgeons  in  the  cockpit.” 

It  was  August  28th  before  the  convoy  stood  out 
to  sea,  a  great  fleet  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  sail. 
All  the  summer  sailing  of  both  East  and  West 
Indiamen  were  there  with  their  burden  of  trade 
and  with  the  new  officials  and  cadets  of  the  East 


127 


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Henry  Martyn 


India  Company  ;  one  vessel  was  a  “  Botanyman,”  the 
Pitt,  with  a  load  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  women 
convicts  for  transportation  to  the  dreadful  Bay ; 
and  with  the  merchant  vessels  passing  “  on  their 
lawful  occasions  ”  was  a  fleet  of  fifty  transports 
carrying  five  thousand  troops  under  Sir  John  Baird, 
to  some  unknown  destination.  “  We  are  to  join 
in  some  expedition,”  Martyn  told  the  Plymouth 
cousins,  “  probably  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  or  the 
Brazils.” 

The  Commodore  had  no  great  naval  force  to  escort 
so  large  a  fleet,  for  the  Admiralty  in  that  summer 
before  Trafalgar  was  scraping  together  ships  enough 
to  fit  out  a  fleet  for  Nelson,  and  Mr  Snodgrass, 
surveyor  to  the  East  India  Company’s  shipping, 
was  showing  them  how  to  strengthen  crazy  vessels 
with  double  planking  and  diagonal  bracings  that 
would  hold  them  together  for  one  more  conflict 
in  that  great  sea  year.  Sir  Home  Popham’s  whole 
naval  strength  for  convoying  one  hundred  and  fifty 
sail  was  two  men-of-war,  the  Diadem  and  the 
Belliqueuse  each  of  sixty-four  guns,1  and  two  naval 
frigates  the  Leda  and  Narcissus — no  great  force  even 
though  manned  by  “  hearty  souls  ready  to  fight  the 
devil  if  so  be  as  he  should  hoist  the  tricolour  ensign.” 
Neither  the  transports  nor  the  merchantmen,  how¬ 
ever,  were  quite  defenceless.  They  all  carried  a 
few  guns  on  the  chance  of  a  scrap  on  the  high  seas 
with  an  enemy  privateer. 

In  spiritual  charge  of  this  assemblage  of  sea-dogs 
and  fighting  men  ranging  from  raw  village  lads  to 
blasphemous  veterans,  was  Henry  Martyn,  aged 

1  Most  of  the  British  ships  at  Trafalgar  had  74  guns  ;  the  Victory 
had  100. 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


129 


twenty-four,  at  home  in  polite  literature  and  in 
college  courts,  all  delicate  ear  and  sensitive  scruple. 
Never  were  flock  and  shepherd  more  strangely 
assorted.  He  sailed  on  the  TJnion ,  a  transport 
carrying  a  load  of  treasure  and  his  Majesty’s  59th 
together  with  some  of  the  East  India  Company’s 
cadets  and  their  officers.  His  cabin  was  stacked 
wTith  books  —  commentaries,  oriental  grammars, 
works  on  India  and  the  life  of  David  Brainerd  for 
himself,  together  with  Simeon’s  parting  gift  of  an 
enormous  Bible,  and  for  the  men  a  store  of  Scriptures, 
hymn-books  and  tracts. 

The  Commodore  gave  Madeira  as  the  first 
rendezvous  of  the  fleet,  and  between  leaving  Cork 
Harbour  on  August  28th  and  reaching  Funchal 
on  September  29th  Martyn  had  an  epitome  of  life 
at  sea.  Packed  with  humanity  as  the  little  wooden 
vessel  was,  she  yet  meant  for  Martyn  a  discipline  of 
loneliness,  always  one  of  the  marks  of  his  spirit 
but  now  first  accentuated.  For  at  Cambridge, 
although  in  the  society  of  his  own  college  he  moved 
solitary  as  regards  his  deepest  interests,  there  wTas 
in  reserve  the  delightful  intimacy  of  Sargent  and 
Corrie  and  Simeon  and  half  a  dozen  more,  to  atone 
for  the  disdain  of  the  crowd.  And  at  the  Fellows’ 
table  the  men  who  shrank  from  his  opinions  were  at 
least  men  who  shared  the  same  intellectual  interests 
and  vocabulary.  On  the  Union  he  felt  himself 
not  only  friendless  in  all  the  deeper  sense  of  friend¬ 
ship  but  a  foreigner,  a  “  raw  academic  ”  as  he  called 
himself,  out  of  place  among  men  whose  dinner  talk 
was  all  of  “  regiments  and  firemen.” 

It  was  impossible  that  a  Henry  Martyn  should 
not  suffer  in  the  first  months  after  leaving  England, 

1 


130 


Henry  Martyn 


as  he  believed,  for  ever.  His  delicately  strung 
nature  had  payment  to  exact  for  the  strain  of  over¬ 
work  during  his  Cambridge  curacy,  as  well  as  for 
the  strain  of  loving  and  leaving  his  Lydia.  He  was 
as  homesick  as  a  child,  waking  “  from  disturbed 
dreams,  to  find  myself  with  a  long  sea  rolling  between 
myself  and  all  that  I  hold  dear  in  this  life.” 
“  England  had  gone,  and  with  it  all  my  peace  .  .  . 
the  pains  of  memory  were  all  I  felt.”  For  Lydia  had 
not  given  him  permission  to  write.  “  I  cannot  write 
to  her,”  he  told  Emma  Hitchins,  “  or  I  should  find  the 
greatest  relief  and  pleasure  even  in  transmitting 
upon  paper  the  assurances  of  my  tenderest  love.” 

Unable  to  endure  the  fetid  atmosphere  below,1 
Martyn  spent  the  first  days  of  the  voyage  on  deck 
“  standing  in  the  air  in  a  sort  of  patient  stupidity, 
very  sick  and  cold,”  longing  for  the  relief  of  being 
alone,  but  surrounded  by  a  crowd,  “  the  soldiers 
jeering  one  another  and  swearing,  the  drums  and 
fifes  constantly  playing.”  The  common  miseries  of 
sea-sickness  were  followed  by  fever  and  faintness  ; 
but  the  struggle  that  was  darkening  his  days  was  in 
its  essence  spiritual.  He  was  torn  by  conflicting 
desires.  “  The  world  in  a  peculiar  form  ”  (he  might 
have  said  in  a  gracious  feminine  form)  “  has  a  hold 
upon  my  soul,  and  the  spiritual  conflict  is  conse¬ 
quently  dreadful.  ...  I  am  now  in  the  fire  fighting 
hard.” 

Next  day  he  wrote  again  : 

Once  more  I  struggled,  determined  to  rise  through 
God,  above  the  body,  the  flesh  and  the  world,  to  a  life 
of  ardour  and  devotedness  to  God. 

1  The  air  below  decks  became  too  foul  even  for  those  unsqueamish 
days,  and  at  intervals  one  or  other  of  the  lower  decks  was  cleared  of 
humans  and  fires  were  lighted  to  purify  the  atmosphere. 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


131 


And  the  following  morning  : 

Beginning  to  grow  quite  outrageous  with  myself  and 
like  a  wild  bull  in  a  net,  I  saw  plainly  this  was  coming  to 
nothing,  and  so  in  utter  despair  of  working  any  deliver¬ 
ance  for  myself,  I  simply  cast  myself  upon  Jesus  Christ, 
praying  that  if  it  were  possible,  something  of  a  change 
might  be  wrought  in  my  heart. 

Relief  came  to  him  two  days  later  ;  but  not  the 
relief  of  a  traveller  who  regains  the  sheltered  pastures 
where  “  love  is  of  the  valley.”  “  I  gave  you  up 
entirely,”  he  told  Lydia  afterwards.  The  relief  that 
came  to  Martyn  was  rather  the  relief  of  the  traveller 
who  has  climbed  through  clouds  to  some  upland 
meadow  where  gentians  drink  the  sunlight  of  a  peak. 
As  the  essential  struggle  had  been  on  the  spiritual 
plane,  so  was  the  victory.  This  evangelical  parson 
on  a  troopship  in  Trafalgar  year  suddenly  carries 
us  into  the  company  of  all  the  mystics  when  they 
try  to  tell  us  of  what  came  to  them  as  they  passed 
through  purging  pains  to  the  soul’s  illumination. 

At  last  the  Lord  hath  appeared  for  the  comfort  of  His 
creature  [he  says].  In  prayer  launched  sweetly  into 
eternity.  .  .  .  Thy  work  may  be  prosecuted  best  by  my 
soul’s  remaining  in  heaven.  The  transcendent  sweetness 
of  the  privilege  of  being  always  with  God  would  appear 
to  me  too  great,  were  it  not  for  the  blessed  command 
“  Set  your  affections  on  things  above.” 

• 

And  again  : 

I  seemed  at  a  long  distance  from  the  earth  and  time, 
and  near  the  blessed  God. 

Or  again  : 

Separated  from  my  friends  and  country  for  ever, 
there  is  nothing  to  distract  me  from  hearing  “  the  voice 
of  my  Beloved,”  and  coming  away  from  the  world  and 


1 32  Henry  Martyn 

walking  with  Him  in  love,  amid  the  flowers  that  perfume 
the  air  of  Paradise. 

Looking  back  in  the  light  of  such  experience  on 
the  struggle  he  had  just  passed  through,  he  felt  that 
God  had  been  also  in  the  cloud,  and  the  words 
of  a  sermon  preached  on  the  poop  of  the  Union 
convey  his  confidence.  “  It  may  be  you  will  still 
be  kept  in  darkness,  but  darkness  is  not  always  the 
frown  of  God  ;  it  is  only  Himself — thy  shade  on 
thy  right  hand.” 

Meanwhile,  whether  the  chaplain’s  soul  were  in 
heavenly  places  or  in  the  nethermost  hell,  men  went 
through  with  the  routine  of  seafaring  days.  The 
sailors  of  the  Union  threatened  mutiny  because  of 
the  miseries  of  their  diet  of  salt  junk.  And  there 
was  a  night  of  storm  when  several  sails  were  torn 
away  and  the  wind  in  the  rigging  above  and  the 
clatter  on  deck  made  sleep  impossible.  Men  lay 
awake  in  the  creaking  wooden  ship,  very  near  to 
the  wailings  and  demon  howls  of  the  wind.  At 
4  a.m.  one  of  the  East  India  Company’s  officers 
came  and  sat  shivering  in  Martyn’s  cabin  “  for 
company.”  When  dawn  came,  the  cabin  floor  was 
awash  with  water,  and  going  up  on  deck  they  found 
that  they  “  were  going  under  bare  poles,  the  sea 
covered  with  so  thick  a  mist  from  the  spray  and 
rain  that  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  tops  of  the 
nearest  waves,  which  seemed  to  be  running  even 
with  the  windward  side  of  the  ship.” 

The  Union  was  the  heaviest  sailer  in  the  fleet  and 
she  dropped  out  of  sight  of  the  rest  of  the  convoy 
so  that  she  ran  considerable  risk  of  capture.  Only 
in  port  could  the  other  ships  share  in  the  chaplain’s 
ministrations,  when  they  sent  for  him  or  came  in 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


*33 


boats  with  babes  to  be  baptized.  At  sea  the  Union 
was  his  whole  parish  and  earned  the  title  of  44  a  very 
praying  ship.” 

Martyn’s  own  mess  was  with  the  officers  of  the 
59th  and  East  India  Company’s  cadets  and  writers 
in  the  cuddy,  41  pleasant  and  orderly,”  but  he 
sought  his  flock  in  every  corner  of  their  crowded 
little  world.  44 1  have  now  free  access  to  the  soldiers 
and  sailors,”  he  wrote  home.  A  surprising  figure 
he  must  have  been  on  a  transport  of  the  Napoleonic 
wars,  a  figure  frail  and  careful  of  dress,  faintly 
academic  in  phrase,  wincing  at  a  blasphemy,  but  no 
coward  on  his  business.  44  Went  below  decks,”  he 
says,  44  there  was  a  quarrel  amongst  the  soldiers  and 
sailors  ;  one  of  the  former  who  was  stripped  for 
fighting  I  went  up  to.”  And  the  tumult  ceased, 
perhaps  from  sheer  surprise,  for  it  was  far  from 
usual  in  1805  to  meet  a  padre  on  the  orlop  deck. 
This  chaplain  was  everywhere.  They  found  him 
sitting  among  pig-tailed  sailors  on  the  gun-deck, 
where  the  hammocks  of  the  crew  were  slung,  44  in 
the  boatswain’s  berth  ”  oblivious  to  everything 
in  44  a  long  and  close  conversation  with  the 
carpenter.”  The  seamen  ear-ringed  and  tattooed, 
packed  together,  miserably  fed,  and  flogged  for 
robbing  a  sugar  basin,  swore  with  every  breath, 
and  their  language  was  quite  literally  pain  and 
grief  to  their  chaplain.  44  Every  oath  they  swore 
was  a  call  on  me  to  help  them  ”  he  told  himself. 

The  most  astonishing  conquest  that  he  made  on 
the  gun-deck  was  when  the  chief  mate  for  his  sake 
ceased  to  swear,  and  ranged  himself  beside  Martyn 
as  protector  and  stout  friend,  telling  those  who 
rebelled  at  the  chaplain’s  ministrations  that  one 


*34 


Henry  Martyn 


day  “  their  consciences  would  be  overhauled.”  “  He 
is  the  image  of  a  blunt  good-natured  seaman,”  wrote 
Martyn  of  this  new  friend,  adding  with  naive  surprise 
that  they  could  not  converse  “  very  long  on  religious 
subjects,”  since  the  mate  was  “  so  soon  out  of  his 
depth.” 

Below  the  gun-deck  were  the  soldiers  ;  and  amid¬ 
ships,  just  under  the  main  hatchway,  their  wives, 
one  of  whom  had  come  aboard  as  a  stowaway  at 
Portsmouth  and  remained  unnoticed  in  the  crowded 
confusion  sharing  a  single  ration  with  her  husband 
until  they  reached  Madeira,  when  the  Captain  found 
her,  forgave  her  handsomely,  and  put  her  on  the 
ration  list.  Martyn  went  below  every  afternoon 
and  amid  “  the  noise  of  the  children,  of  the  married 
people  and  the  sailors  who  were  all  about  us,  talking 
as  if  nothing  were  going  forward,”  he  read  aloud  to 
a  small  group  from  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  Later, 
he  hit  upon  the  more  popular  plan  of  teaching  them 
to  sing.  His  offer  to  teach  the  men  to  read  they 
would  have  none  of.  The  subalterns  of  the  59th 
chose  to  regard  his  singing  class  as  “  most 
dangerous,”  “  unfitting  the  men  to  be  soldiers.” 
(it  is  possible  that  Martyn  had  felt  called  to  re¬ 
monstrate  with  the  subalterns  on  the  subject  of 
foul  language.)  Some  of  the  men  agreed  with  them 
or  tried  to  make  the  chaplain  think  so  :  “  B.  said 
he  was  determined  he  would  never  pray,  for  if  he 
did,  he  should  not  be  able  to  fight,  that  he  was  a 
soldier  and  robbery  was  his  business.”  The  senior 
officers,  however,  saw  no  harm  in  Martyn’s  unusual 
course  if  it  gave  him  any  pleasure  ;  his  audience 
was  not  so  large  as  to  cause  any  serious  fear  of  the 
demoralization  of  the  army.  For  Martyn  had 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


135 


neither  Sargent’s  humour  nor  Simeon’s  arresting 
vehemence  nor  any  of  the  gifts  of  the  street  preacher. 

It  was  never  easy  to  him  to  thread  his  way  through 
a  crowd  in  the  dark  and  stifling  lower  decks,  and 
win  for  himself  a  hearing  from  the  figures  lolling 
round  or  busy  with  domestic  concerns.  With  in¬ 
tense  pain  he  would  rouse  himself  to  rebuke  some 
blasphemy,  knowing  well  that  such  a  rebuke  was 
no  ingratiating  opening  for  his  message,  and  listening 
to  the  snigger  that  followed  his  effort  in  full  con¬ 
sciousness  of  his  own  shortcomings. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  push  things.  I  have  a  delicacy 
about  me  which  no  doubt  proves  ruinous  to  souls.  ...  I 
do  not,  that  I  know  of,  shrink  from  any  known  method 
of  diffusing  the  light  of  truth,  but  I  am  not  ingenious  in 
methods ;  .  .  .  I  want  the  essence  of  zeal,  which  if  no 
way  be  open  will  make  a  way. 

Against  humanity  in  the  raw,  humanity  familiar 
with  salt  pork  and  curses,  grog  and  cutlasses  and 
bumboat  women,  he  felt  himself  44  a  schoolboy,  a 
raw  academic.” 

44 1  pictured  myself  strutting  about  the  streets 
and  walks  of  Cambridge  wrapt  in  content,  thinking 
myself  very  amiable  and  admired.”  He  longed  to 
escape  from  44  the  academic  contagion,”  never 
doubting  that  his  gospel  was  for  the  seamen  and 
the  Company’s  Cadets  and  for  his  Majesty’s  59th, 
but  longing  to  break  through  the  barriers  that 
education  had  built  between  his  mind  and  theirs. 
44 1  could  have  willingly  forgotten  all  I  had  ever 
read  or  learnt,  to  be  a  man  of  the  ancient  primitive 
simplicity.”  44  The  words  of  Milner  have  been 
much  upon  my  mind,  4  to  believe,  to  suffer  and  to 
love,  was  the  primitive  taste.’  I  do  not  know  that 


i36 


Henry  Martyn 


any  uninspired  sentence  ever  affected  me  so 
much.” 

Martyn  never  found,  and  never  would  find  his 
way  to  the  warm  heart  of  a  mob.  But  his  presence 
in  the  ship,  with  his  refusal  of  all  compromise,  proved 
there,  as  wherever  the  clear  flame  of  his  spirit  passed, 
a  touchstone  for  other  souls.  Many  of  doubtful 
mind  “  offended  at  his  sayings  ”  “  went  back  and 
walked  no  more  with  him.”  Yet  here  and  there 
44  with  tears  ”  a  rough  and  hearty  seaman  or 
corporal  changed  his  allegiance  and  began  to  follow 
Christ  on  no  easy  path.  The  loyal  few,  for  whom 
Martyn’s  cabin  was  open  at  all  hours,  were  led  on 
to  harder  loyalties  than  they  had  known  before. 
One  of  the  cadets’  officers,  a  Mr  Mackenzie,  became 
almost  Martyn’s  shadow,  reading  with  him  and 
sometimes  with  the  surgeon  or  another  44  serious  ” 
officer,  the  Confessions  of  St  Augustine ,  Milner’s 
Church  History,  Leighton’s  Commentaries ,  or  the 
Letters  of  David  Brainerd.  Mr  Mackenzie  even  went 
below  decks  to  Martyn’s  hymn-singing,  running  the 
gauntlet  of  much  banter  in  the  cuddy  afterwards. 
On  his  appearance  a  cheerful  subaltern  would  sing 
out,  “  Come  now,  let’s  have  a  little  of  the  humbug,” 
and  the  cuddy  would  be  indulged  with  a  choice 
nasal  parody  of  psalm-singing.  The  cadets  whom 
Mr  Mackenzie  commanded  were  seriously  afraid 
that  their  officer  in  turning  44  Methodist  ”  would 
try  to  make  them  all  44  melancholy  mad.”  It  was 
Mr  Mackenzie’s  none-too-easy  task  to  try  to  explain 
the  saint  to  the  ship’s  company  and  the  ship’s 
company  to  the  saint.  He  brought  to  Martyn  the 
current  reports  about  his  preaching  :  44  Martyn  is 
a  good  scholar  but  not  much  of  an  orator  ”  they 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


137 


said,  and  Mackenzie  told  him  “  It  was  a  want  of 
easy  flow,  arising  from  a  want  of  confidence  in  his 
own  abilities.” 

“If  it  be  not  remedied,”  said  the  disconsolate 
Martyn,  “  I  am  afraid  I  shall  make  but  a  dull 
preacher  to  the  Indians.” 

The  one  service  on  Sunday  was  held  on  the  poop, 
weather  permitting,  at  any  hour  that  seemed  good 
to  the  authorities.  Sometimes  Martyn,  expecting 
a  service  in  the  morning,  would  go  up  to  find  “  the 
sailors  all  at  work  on  the  poop  and  the  boatswain 
swearing  at  them  ”  and  Church  would  not  be  rigged 
till  5  p.m.  Sometimes  it  was  put  off  till  too  late — • 
“  The  sun  was  down  before  they  rigged  the  Church  ” 
— and  the  men  were  piped  to  hammocks. 

Between  two  and  three  hundred  came  to  the 
services  but  the  soldiers  were  “  not  very  attentive  ” 
to  the  chaplain’s  preaching.  The  boatswain’s  mate 
told  him,  to  his  deep  humiliation,  that  the  sermons 
were  too  difficult  for  the  young  lads  among  the 
soldiers.  On  reading  them  one  finds  that,  direct 
and  simple  as  he  made  his  thought,  and  relentlessly 
as  he  made  each  sentence  do  its  perfect  work, 
Martyn’s  words  and  especially  his  sentence-building 
have  a  faintly  classical  tinge  that  must  have  given 
them  an  almost  foreign  ring  in  the  ears  of  boys 
from  the  tail  of  the  plough,  who  could  not  sign 
their  names  when  they  took  King  George’s  shilling. 

His  preaching  was  far  too  direct  and  unequivocal 
to  be  popular  among  the  officers.  “  Mr  Martyn 
sends  us  to  hell  every  Sunday  ”  was  their  comment, 
which  considerably  surprised  the  preacher.  “  Major 
Davidson  told  me  that  I  set  the  duties  of  religion 
in  so  terrific  a  light  that  people  were  revolted.  I 


i38 


Henry  Martyn 


felt  the  force  of  this  remark  and  determined  to  make 
more  use  of  the  love  of  God  in  the  Gospel.”  But 
his  audience,  used  to  the  comfortable  flowing  periods 
of  a  moral  essay,  threatened  to  stay  away  unless  he 
would  preach  a  sermon  44  like  one  of  Blair’s.” 
Martyn  continued  his  hot-gospellings  ;  his  flaming 
conviction,  his  all-compelling  God-consciousness 
strangely  clad  in  carefully-turned  classical  sentences. 
It  was  as  though  an  Old  Testament  prophet  stood 
among  them  on  the  poop  and  delivered  his  burning 
message  of  44  righteousness,  temperance  and  judg¬ 
ment  to  come,”  clad  all  the  while  in  the  black  gown 
and  white  bands  associated  with  plump  velvet 
pulpit-cushions  and  afternoon  slumber  induced  by 
a  gently  flowing  voice  and  the  buzz  of  a  blue-bottle 
in  a  window  not  made  to  open. 

The  officers  were  annoyed  and  rude  at  the 
chaplain’s  failure,  his  deliberate  failure  too,  to 
accommodate  his  preaching  to  their  wishes.  They 
arranged  themselves  behind  him,  ready  to  walk 
out  at  any  statement  of  which  they  disapproved, 
and  one  of  them  conspicuously  44  employed  himself 
in  feeding  the  geese.” 

Such  storms  were  usual  enough  when  one  of  the 
44  serious  ”  clergy  first  made  his  appearance  and 
preached  the  tremendous  doctrine  of  sin  and  justi¬ 
fication  in  days  which  held  it  44  monstrous  ”  that 
a  high-born  lady  should  be  told  44  she  had  a  heart 
as  sinful  as  the  common  wretches.”  The  doctrinal 
storm  on  the  Union  gradually  died  away  as  such 
storms  do,  and  two  of  the  ringleaders  eventually 
told  the  chaplain  that  44  he  had  persuaded  them  that 
a  religious  character  was  an  amiable  one.”  But 
Martyn  was  regarded  to  the  end  as  too  severe  a 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


139 


preacher.  Charles  Simeon  himself,  sharing  to  the 
full  Martyn’s  conviction  of  the  exceeding  sinfulness 
of  sin,  had  yet  told  him  that  his  condemnations 
were  those  of  a  man  who  saw  black  against  white 
and  did  not  distinguish  the  grey  of  mingled  motives 
in  human  action.  Dean  Church  perhaps  throws 
light  upon  this  note  in  Martyn’s  preaching  when, 
in  a  suggestive  sentence,  he  points  out  a  likeness 
between  Henry  Martyn  and  Hurrell  Froude  who, 
thirty  years  later,  was  to  be  the  youngest  and 
shortest-lived  figure  in  the  group  that  led  the  Oxford 
Movement.  Both  men,  he  says,  44  were  made  by 
strong  and  even  merciless  self-discipline  over  a 
strong  and  for  a  long  time  refractory  nature.”  1 
And  he  goes  on  to  write  of  Froude  words  that  might 
have  been  set  down  of  Martyn,  and  go  far  to  ex¬ 
plain  the  severity  of  his  relentless  earnestness  : 

He  44  turned  his  thoughts  on  that  desolate  wilderness, 
his  own  conscience,  and  said  what  he  saw  there.”  A  man 
who  has  had  a  good  deal  to  conquer  in  himself,  and  has 
gone  a  good  way  to  conquer  it,  is  not  apt  to  be  indulgent 
to  self-deceit  or  indolence,  or  even  weakness.  ...  It 
was  as  unbearable  to  him  to  pretend  not  to  see  a  fallacy 
as  soon  as  it  was  detected,  as  it  would  have  been  to  him 
to  arrive  at  the  right  answer  of  a  sum  or  a  problem  by 
tampering  with  the  processes. 

Newman  who  loved  him  wrote  of  Froude,  44 1 
should  say  that  his  power  of  entering  into  the  minds 
of  others  was  not  equal  to  his  other  gifts.”  Such 
words  are  true  of  Martyn  too,  and  it  follows  that 
both  men  would  rouse  opposition  where  others  of 
less  utterly  sincere  devotion  might  serve  acceptably. 

But  there  are  pleasanter  pictures  of  Martyn  with 

1  Dean  Church,  The  Oxford  Movement,  p.  37. 


140 


Henry  Martyn 


his  flock,  as  when  he  stole  unobserved  down  three 
ladders  to  visit  the  sick  in  the  cockpit,  where  he 
had  to  feel  his  way  to  their  hammocks,  a  light  being 
forbidden.  44  At  night,”  he  writes,  44  got  below 
without  being  observed,  and  with  some  Madeira 
and  water  for  two  of  the  sick  men.” 

Or  as  when  a  corporal  stole  up  to  him  and  pressed 
into  his  hand  a  letter  with  the  confession  of  spiritual 
need  that  he  could  never  make  otherwise  on  the 
crowded  deck,  and  Martyn  sought  him  out  and 
spent  a  Sunday  evening  by  his  side  at  the  main 
hatchway  44  looking  out  at  a  raging  sea.” 

Or  as  in  the  Journal  of  another  day  : 

On  deck  I  had  some  conversation  with  one  of  the 
sergeants,  who  said  with  some  emotion  that  many  of  the 
men  were  the  better  for  my  coming  among  them,  and 
that  for  himself  he  had  been  brought  up  in  this  persuasion, 
and  now  things  he  had  almost  forgotten  were  brought 
to  his  mind.  At  his  request  I  supplied  him  with  a 
Bible. 

The  first  break  in  the  monotony  of  sea  life  was 
at  Funchal,  Madeira,  where  the  fleet  put  in  for 
water,  upsetting  the  whole  economy  of  the  island  by 
the  demands  of  its  great  numbers.  44  Not  a  bed  or 
a  meal  to  be  had  at  either  of  the  two  inns  ”  and 
the  whole  town  in  the  greatest  bustle  and  confusion 
at  having  to  water  one  hundred  and  fifty  sail  in  a 
few  hours.  Martyn  had  letters  of  introduction  to  the 
English  community  and  characteristically  enough 
persuaded  one  of  his  island  acquaintance  to  come 
to  his  lodging  to  hear  him  read  aloud  the  whole 
of  a  volume  of  French  sermons  in  order  to  criticize 
his  pronunciation  “with  great  care  and  attention.” 

It  was  his  first  glimpse  of  foreign  parts. 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


141 


I  went  to  the  great  Catholic  Church  .  .  .  the  splendour 
of  the  church  was  beyond  anything  I  had  conceived  .  .  . 
the  few  devotees  there,  while  on  their  knees,  would 
laugh  and  talk  together.  A  poor  negro  woman  crossed 
herself  at  this  time  with  much  fervour  and  apparent 
contrition.  I  thought  she  might  be  truly  an  awakened 
soul,  and  longed  to  be  able  to  speak  to  her. 

Before  they  set  sail  the  Captain  of  the  Union 
took  Martyn  aboard  H.M.S.  Diadem  where  the 
Commodore  was  giving  orders  to  colonels  of  regiments 
and  captains  of  vessels  about  the  mysterious  destina¬ 
tion  of  the  troops.  Martyn,  pacing  the  larboard 
side  of  the  quarter-deck  and  observing  the  eager 
group,  coveted  for  the  business  of  his  own  cam¬ 
paign  “  Sir  Home’s  earnestness  of  manner  in  ex¬ 
pressing  himself.”  When  the  fleet  had  sailed  the 
men  learned  that  San  Salvador  (now  Bahia)  Brazil, 
was  the  next  rendezvous  on  their  tortuous  passage 
to  India,  but  the  troops  were  still  in  the  dark  as  to 
where  they  were  to  take  the  field. 

The  month  of  October  (October  3rd  to  November 
12th)  they  spent  in  crossing  the  Atlantic,  all  un¬ 
aware  that  during  their  voyage  the  French  fleet  had 
sailed  out  of  Cadiz  to  meet  the  English  under  Cape 
Trafalgar.  During  this  month  Martyn  made  strides 
with  Hindustani  in  which  he  was  to  do  original  and 
originative  work.  He  had  with  him  Gilchrist’s 
Grammar  and  Dictionary  and  was  making  himself 
master  of  all  the  roots,  but  his  problem  was  to  com¬ 
pare  the  language  of  grammars  with  the  language 
of  life,  and  to  produce  books,  not  indeed  forgetful 
of  classic  elegance — ere  a  Martyn  forgot  that  his 
right  hand  must  forget  her  cunning — but  still  less 
forgetful  of  the  language  of  common  speech.  In 


142 


Henry  Martyn 


his  claim  for  the  value  of  the  spoken  tongue  and  his 
delicate  care  for  actual  spoken  sound  Martyn  was  a 
pioneer  among  oriental  scholars.  Men  of  the  type 
of  Sir  William  Jones  built  their  work  upon  diction¬ 
aries  and  comparison  of  written  roots  ;  Martyn,  as 
much  in  love  as  they  with  such  research,  had  a 
message  for  life,  and  the  living  language  must  be 
his  care.  The  officers  of  the  Union  saw  their  most 
astonishing  chaplain  sit  down  among  the  Lascars 
and  test  on  them  the  sentences  from  his  grammar. 
He  found,  as  might  be  expected,  that  the  Hindustani 
of  the  grammars  was  44  vastly  too  fine  for  these 
men  ”  and  too  full  of  Arabic  and  Persian  words. 
Slowly  he  made  himself  better  understood  :  the 
Journal  for  Trafalgar  Day  shows  Martyn  seated  on 
the  gun  deck,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  Lascars,  and 
reading  aloud 

the  prayer  of  Parboter  which  I  had  been  translating  into 
Hindoostanee.  They  seemed  to  understand  me  perfectly  ; 
Cade  corrected  my  pronunciation  in  a  few  words,  and  one 
or  two  other  words  they  did  not  understand,  but  I  was 
surprised  at  being  able  to  gain  their  attention  at  all. 

Later  he  bore  one  of  them  off  to  his  cabin  to  test 
his  work  sentence  by  sentence  and  word  by  word. 
A  Company’s  official  who  invited  44  blacks  ”  to  his 
cabin  must  be  demented,  and  the  officers  henceforth 
gave  Martyn  up  as  44  a  mad  enthusiast.” 

They  ran  at  last  into  San  Salvador  after  a  day 
spent  in  battle  stations  owing  to  the  presence  of  a 
strange  sail  on  the  horizon.  The  Captain  of  the 
Union ,  which  had  as  usual  fallen  behind  the  rest 
of  the  fleet,  told  Martyn  44  in  a  great  ferment  ” 
that  he  44  would  rather  fight  till  the  ship  sunk  than 
strike  to  a  privateer.”  But  the  stranger  showed 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


143 


no  signs  of  fight,  and  amid  much  “  furious  bellowing  ” 
from  Captain  to  pilot,  the  Union  made  the  harbour 
of  San  Salvador. 

Here  Martyn  went  ashore  on  a  new  continent 
and  spent  one  of  the  sunniest  fortnights  of  his  life. 
44  Nothing  but  negro  slaves  ”  was  his  first  impression, 
44  very  good-natured  cheerful  looking  people.” 

A  slave  was  sent  to  gather  three  roses  for  me.  ...  A 
slave  in  my  bedroom  washed  my  feet.  I  was  struck 
with  the  degree  of  abasement  expressed  in  the  act ;  and 
as  he  held  the  foot  in  the  towel  with  his  head  bowed  down 
towards  it,  I  remembered  the  condescension  of  our 
blessed  Lord. 

Looking  for  a  shady  spot  where  he  could  be  alone 
under  the  orange  trees,  Martyn  stumbled  on  to  the 
estate  of  a  Portuguese  gentleman,  who,  charmed 
with  the  manners  and  the  learning  of  the  stranger, 
gave  him  great  and  genial  hospitality  ;  carried  him 
about  through  the  sunny  air  in  a  palanquin,  and 
showed  him  off  to  his  friends  as  44  one  who  knew 
everything,  Persian,  Arabic,  Greek.”  Martyn  half 
amused  and  wholly  interested  in  his  new  experiences 
in  the  pleasant,  lazy  land  was  allowed  at  intervals 
the  solace  of  time  alone  in  the  garden  where  trees 
made  a  shade  near  water,  the  ground  covered  with 
oranges,  like  apples  on  an  English  orchard  floor. 
Here,  in  great  peace,  he  crooned  over  well-loved 
hymns,  read  psalms  that  carried  him  to  Lydia 
and  Cornwall,  and  prayed  aloud  in  the  security 
that  no  Brazilian  listener  could  understand  his  words. 

His  home  letters  tell  of  the  44  indescribable  slops  ” 
of  Portuguese  feasts,  and  venture  playfully  to  send 
kind  remembrances  to  Lydia’s  mother  44  if  she 
considers  me  as  now  at  a  sufficient  distance.” 


1 44 


Henry  Martyn 


They  beg  for  news.  To  Cousin  Emma  he  writes  : 
44  The  simplest  narrative  in  the  world  will  delight 
me, — what  texts  Cousin  Tom  preached  on — what 
sick  he  went  to  see — and  a  thousand  nameless  little 
occurrences  will  present  a  living  picture  of  you  to 
my  mind.  Can  you  send  me  by  Mr  Corrie,  or  by 
any  other  means,  your  profile  and  Cousin  Tom’s 
and  Lydia’s  ?  ” 

In  the  delights  of  the  tropical  garden  ;  in  genial 
hours  when  Senor  Antonio,  his  wife  and  a  slave 
played  cards,  and  Martyn  44  sat  at  the  table  learning 
Hindoostanee  roots  ”  ;  in  a  rapid  devouring  of  the 
Portuguese  grammar  ;  and  in  Latin  discussions,  not 
unheated,  with  the  Franciscan  fathers  of  the  place, 
the  pleasant  Brazilian  interlude  flew  by  ;  and  Martyn 
was  rowed  back  to  the  crowded  life  on  board,  by 
white-robed  Lascars  singing  chants  in  honour  of 
Mohammed. 

The  fleet  stood  out  to  sea  and  now  at  last  the 
object  of  the  military  expedition  was  disclosed. 

December  6th.  Our  Captain  going  aboard  the 
Commodore  by  a  signal,  brought  back  the  information 
that  the  Cape  was  our  object,  that  a  stout  resistance 
was  expected  ;  and  that  it  would  be  five  weeks  before 
we  should  arrive  thither.  The  minds  of  all  were  set  in 
motion  by  this  account,  as  few,  I  believe,  expected  hard 
fighting. 

The  44  side  show  ”  for  which  this  expedition  had 
been  despatched  was  the  wresting  from  the  French 
(then  masters  of  the  44  Batavian  Republic  ”) 
of  the  Dutch  settlement  of  Cape  Colony,  which, 
in  view  of  Napoleon’s  eastward-straining  ambition, 
loomed  large  as  a  naval  stronghold  that  was  the 
halfway  house  to  India. 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


145 


So  through  strange  seas  and  under  other  stars 
than  the  stars  of  home,  the  Union  carried  her  load 
of  fighting  men  to  battle.  In  this,  the  third  stage  of 
her  voyage,  many  of  the  men  went  sick.  Martyn 
staggered  amongst  them,  himself  down  with 
dysentery.  His  journal  reveals  something  of  the 
miseries  of  illness  at  sea  in  1805. 

The  ship’s  steward  lay  convulsed  with  a  gunner  stand¬ 
ing  by  him,  holding  a  burning  lamp  that  would  scarcely 
burn  ;  the  air  was  so  bad  and  the  place  withal  so  hot, 
being  directly  under  the  copper,  that  it  was  altogether 
most  intolerable. 

Had  no  service  below  as  I  was  taken  up  in  going  to  and 
fro  to  the  sick,  of  whom  there  is  now  a  great  number.  .  .  . 
The  condition  of  the  sick  is  miserable.  I  could  not  stand 
it  till  I  got  some  aromatic  vinegar. 

The  Captain  himself  was  stricken  down. 

About  seven  this  morning  I  was  sent  for  by  the  surgeon 
to  the  captain  ;  I  saw  that  he  was  a  dying  man  ;  his 
eyes  rolled  in  his  head,  .  .  .  but  he  was  in  general 
sensible.  I  began  to  read  the  most  encouraging  passages 
I  could  find.  .  .  .  He  repeated  “  Lord,  evermore  give 
us  this  bread  ”...  I  prayed.  .  .  .  On  my  being 
interrupted  by  the  doctor,  he  said  “  Mind  him,”  meaning 
that  he  was  to  attend  to  me,  and  shortly  died.  We  bore 
down  to  give  notice  of  it  to  the  Commodore.  .  .  .  The 
Sarah  Christiana ,  when  she  saw  our  signal,  fired  minute 
guns  so  that  the  whole  scene  was  very  affecting. 

When  1806  was  three  days  old,  the  high  lands 
of  the  Cape  were  discovered,  yet  eighty  miles  off ; 
“  a  most  stately  thing,  and  the  finest  cape  we  saw 
in  the  circumference  of  the  earth,”  Sir  Francis 
Drake  had  called  it ;  seen  now  with  what  eager 
suspense  by  cadets  who  for  the  first  time  would  go 
into  battle.  Martyn’s  journal  and  a  letter  to 
Sargent  give  us  a  picture  of  the  deck  of  the  Union 
c 


146 


Henry  Martyn 


when  she  came  to  anchor  in  Table  Bay  on  Saturday 
night,  January  4th. 

About  sunset  the  fleet  came  to  an  anchor  between 
Robbers’  Island  and  the  land.  The  instant  our  anchor  was 
down,  a  signal  was  given  for  the  59th  regiment  to  prepare 
to  land.  Our  men  were  soon  ready  and  received  thirty- 
six  rounds  of  ball  cartridge ;  before  the  three  boats 
were  lowered  down  and  fitted  it  was  two  o’clock  ;  I 
stayed  up  to  see  them  off.  The  privates  were  keeping 
up  their  spirits  by  affecting  to  joke  about  the  approach 
of  danger,  and  the  ladies  sitting  in  the  cold  night  upon 
the  grating  of  the  after-hatchway  overwhelmed  with 
grief. 

Martyn,  although  an  official  chaplain  of  the  East 
India  Company’s  troops,  was  left  on  deck  with  the 
women.  Senor  Domingo  in  Brazil  had  already  put 
him  to  shame  by  asking  44  if  the  soldiers  had  a 
minister  to  attend  them  in  their  dying  moments, 
to  instruct  and  administer  consolation  ”  ;  and  Martyn 
44  hardly  knew  what  to  say  to  explain  such  neglect 
amongst  the  Protestants,”  at  which  his  Portuguese 
friend  was  shrugging  his  shoulders  in  horror.  He 
was  now  left  to  strain  his  eyes  in  following  his  men 
as  they  were  rallied  among  the  flowering  heaths  and 
myrtle  bushes  near  the  shore,  and  as  they  marched, 
breasting  the  Blue  Mountains  to  meet  the  Dutch 
resistance,  ranged  44  with  twenty-three  pieces  of 
cannon  ”  between  them  and  the  town.  He  heard 
the  artillery  speak  and  44  it  seemed  as  if  the  mountain 
itself  were  torn  by  intestine  convulsions.”  He 
could  see  his  men  rush  down  the  hill  to  meet  the 
Dutch,  and  then,  as  the  enemy  who  had  stood  fire 
were  broken  by  a  bayonet  charge,  Martyn  escaped 
from  the  Union  and  got  ashore  to  his  men.  On 
the  sandy  beach  he  came  first  upon  the  cadets  of 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


147 


his  own  ship  who  had  made  a  shelter  of  bushes  and 
straw  and  hailed  him  in  to  eat  with  them.  But 
he  did  not  stay  long,  for  two  wounded  Highlanders 
walking  into  the  lines  brought  news  of  a  number 
of  wounded  lying  out  along  the  army’s  line  of  march. 
A  party  with  “  slings  and  barrows  ”  went  in  search 
and  Martyn  was  off  with  them  six  miles  through 
the  soft  burning  sand  dotted  with  heath  and 
geranium. 

We  were  attracted  by  seeing  some  English  soldiers ; 
wounded  men  of  the  24th  ;  three  were  mortally  wounded. 
One  who  was  shot  through  the  lungs  was  spitting  blood. 
The  surgeon  desired  me  to  spread  a  greatcoat  over  him 
as  they  left  him.  As  I  did  this  I  talked  to  him  a  little 
of  the  blessed  Gospel. 

The  wounded  were  being  carried  into  a  Boer  farm¬ 
house. 

All  whom  we  approached  cried  out  instantly  for  water. 
One  poor  Hottentot  .  .  .  lay  with  extraordinary  patience 
under  his  wound  on  the  burning  sand  ;  I  did  what  I 
could  to  make  his  position  comfortable,  and  laid  near 
him  some  bread  which  I  found  on  the  ground.  Another 
Hottentot  lay  struggling  with  his  mouth  in  the  dust  and 
the  blood  flowing  out  of  it,  cursing  the  Dutch  in  English. 
.  .  .  While  the  surgeon  went  back  to  get  his  instrument 
in  hopes  of  saving  the  man’s  life,  a  Highland  soldier 
came  up,  and  asked  me  in  a  rough  tone,  “  Who  are 
you  ?  ”  I  told  him  an  Englishman,  he  said,  14  No,  no, 
you  are  French,”  and  was  going  to  present  his  musket. 
As  I  saw  he  was  rather  intoxicated,  and  might  in  mere 
wantonness  fire,  I  went  up  to  him  and  told  him  that  if 
he  liked  he  might  take  me  prisoner  to  the  English  Army, 
but  that  I  was  certainly  an  English  clergyman.  The 
man  was  pacified  at  last.  The  surgeon  on  his  return 
found  the  thigh  of  the  poor  Hottentot  broken  and 
therefore  left  him  to  die.  Oh !  that  ambitious  men  at 
home  could  see  the  agonies  of  dying  men  left  on  the  field. 


148 


Henry  Martyn 


Cape  Town  surrendered  on  January  10th.  About 
five  the  Commodore  fired  a  gun  which  was  answered 
by  the  other  men-of-war.  “  On  looking  out  for  the 
cause,  we  saw  the  British  flag  flying  on  the  Dutch 
fort.  ...  I  prayed  that  the  capture  of  the  Cape 
might  be  for  the  advancement  of  Christ’s  kingdom.” 

The  fleet  lingered  nearly  a  month  at  the  Cape 
and  Martyn  took  shore  lodgings,  rejoiced  in  “  honest 
English  apples  and  pears,  tea  and  bread  and  butter 
for  breakfast,”  and  came  into  personal  contact  with 
one  of  his  Cambridge  heroes.  Dr  Vanderkemp,  the 
old  Dutch  missionary  to  Kaffraria  whose  report 
he  had  found  so  “  infinitely  entertaining  ”  that  he 
44  could  read  nothing  else  while  it  lasted.” 

From  the  moment  of  his  arrival  in  South  Africa 
Martyn  had  been  44  anxiously  enquiring  about 
Dr  Vanderkemp.  At  last,  to  my  no  small  delight, 
heard  that  he  was  now  in  Cape  Town.  But  it  was 
long  before  I  could  find  him.  At  length  I  did. 
He  was  standing  outside  of  the  house,  silently 
looking  up  at  the  stars.  A  great  number  of  black 
people  were  sitting  around.  On  my  introducing 
myself  he  led  me  in  and  called  for  Mr  Read.” 

From  the  exuberance  of  Martyn ’s  delight  at 
meeting  men  who  shared  the  same  allegiance,  we 
gather  how  great  had  been  the  repression  and 
loneliness  of  the  months  at  sea.  44 1  was  beyond 
measure  delighted.”  44 1  hardly  knew  what  to  do.” 
He  visited  them  daily,  and  with  the  younger  man, 
Mr  Read,  he  was  44  so  charmed  .  .  .  that  I  fancied 
myself  in  company  with  David  Brainerd.”  Mr  Read 
in  a  bush  station  among  the  Hottentots  had  often 
been  reduced  to  penury.  At  such  times,  he  told 
Martyn,  “  it  seemed  to  be  suggested  to  him  4  If 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


149 


thou  wilt  be  my  servant,  be  contented  to  fare  in 
this  way  :  if  not,  go  and  fare  better.5  His  mind 
was  thus  satisfied  to  remain  God’s  missionary.” 
44  Walking  home  I  asked  Dr  Vanderkemp  if  he  had 
ever  repented  of  his  undertaking.  4  No,5  said  the 
old  man,  smiling,  4  and  I  would  not  exchange  my 
work  for  a  kingdom.5  Dear  Dr  Vanderkemp  gave 
me  a  Syriac  Testament  as  a  remembrance  of  him.” 

So  passed  a  month  and  the  East  India  fleet  was 
once  more  ready  to  sail.  Before  leaving  Africa 
Martyn  went  with  two  or  three  friends  up  Table 
Mountain  ;  and  wandering  away  from  his  party 
he  scrambled  up  the  kloof  alone.  At  the  end  of 
the  last  steep  pull  he  came  upon  a  little  hollow, 
green  and  decked  with  flame -coloured  blossoms 
waving  in  the  breeze.  44  It  seemed  to  be  an  emblem 
of  the  beauty  and  peacefulness  of  heaven  as  it  shall 
open  upon  the  soul.”  He  left  the  kloof  and  stood 
alone  on  the  roof  of  the  world,  looking  from  sea  to 
sea,  44  where  there  was  neither  noise  nor  smaller 
objects  to  draw  off  my  attention.  One  might  be 
said  to  look  round  the  world  from  this  promontory.” 
Gazing  out  eastward  over  the  watery  road  to  India, 
the  calmness  of  wide  spaces  came  into  his  soul. 
44 1  felt  commanded  to  wait  in  silence  and  see  how 
God  would  bring  His  promises  to  pass.” 

None  of  the  travellers  found  it  easy  to  go  back 
to  the  close-packed  life  of  their  voyagings  :  44  A 

gloom  seemed  to  hang  upon  all  the  passengers, 
at  beginning  so  long  a  trip  as  from  hence  to  India, 
after  the  weariness  of  so  long  a  voyage.”  They  set 
sail  on  February  9th,  1806,  shortly  before  Martyn’s 
twenty-fifth  birthday,  and  seven  months  after  leaving 
England,  and  they  plunged  at  once  into  storms 


Henry  Martyn 


150 

and  sea-sickness.  Martyn  propped  up  in  his  cabin 
a  water-colour  of  St  Hilary  Vicarage,  and  longed 
for  a  picture  of  Lydia.  But  there  was  a  quietness 
dwelling  on  his  spirit  : 

I  pray  that  this  may  be  my  state,  neither  to  be 
anxious  to  escape  from  this  stormy  sea  that  was  round 
the  Cape,  nor  to  change  the  tedious  scene  of  the  ship  for 
Madras  .  .  .  but  to  glorify  God  where  I  am  and  where 
He  puts  me. 

A  change  was  coming  over  his  experience.  During 
the  first  months  of  his  voyage,  along  with  the  ac¬ 
ceptance  of  loneliness  and  rebuff  there  had  come 
to  him  moments  of  illumination  and  escape,  which 
he  could  only  describe  as  “  walking  with  my  Beloved 
amid  the  flowers  of  Paradise.” 

Now  as  he  left  South  Africa  his  climbing  soul 
made  fresh  discovery.  Such  moments  of  ecstasy, 
like  sunlit  peaks,  were  not  the  summit  he  was  seeking, 
but  only  outlying  bulwarks  of  “  those  shining 
tablelands.” 

“  I  perceived  for  the  first  time  the  difference 
between  sensible  sweetness  in  religion,  and  the 
really  valuable  attainments.”  He  dwelt  first  with 
surprise,  but  later  with  consent,  on  a  stern  sentence 
of  Leighton.  “  Mortify  all  affections  towards  in¬ 
ward  sensible  spiritual  delight  in  grace,  and  the 
following  of  devotion  with  sensible  sweetness  in  the 
lower  faculties  or  powers  of  the  soul,  which  are  in 
no  wise  real  sanctity  or  holiness  in  themselves,  but 
certain  gifts  of  God  to  help  our  infirmity.”  Strong 
meat  for  strong  climbers  this,  and  no  milk  for  babes. 
“For  the  many  that  come  to  Bethlehem  there  be 
few  that  go  on  to  Calvary.” 

The  last  stage  of  the  Union’s  voyage  was  the 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


151 


weariest.  The  ship  was  several  times  becalmed  in 
the  Indian  Ocean  and  people  grew  fretful  in  the  heat 
and  tedious  delay.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  moral 
ascendancy  which  Martyn  had  insensibly  won  over 
the  men  he  sailed  with.  There  was  little  peace  for 
his  Hindustani  grammar,  he  was  “  much  teased 
with  the  accusations  of  the  Captain,  the  commander 
of  the  troops,  the  sick,  etc.  all  of  whom  complain 
of  and  abuse  one  another  to  me,”  and  was  con¬ 
stantly  in  request  to  mediate  quarrels  between  the 
cadets  and  their  officers,  or  between  the  King’s  officers 
and  the  Company’s.  As  the  delays  lengthened,  the 
new  Captain  confided  in  Martyn  his  fears  that  the 
provisions  might  not  hold  out.  Sickness  continued 
among  the  men  and  there  was  no  diet  fit  for  invalids. 
Martyn  sent  down  to  them  his  own  allowance  of 
Madeira  and  water.  Coffee  gave  out,  then  tea. 
There  was  no  fresh  meat  to  spare  and  Martyn’s 
own  helping  went,  when  he  could  manage  it,  to 
the  convalescents,  while  he  ate  salt  junk  himself. 

Read  Hindoostanee  ;  the  gale  of  wind  continuing  and 
much  water  flying  over  the  sides,  all  the  hatches  were 
shut  down,  so  that  there  was  perfect  darkness  below  ; 
however  I  visited  the  sick  man,  being  obliged  to  feel 
my  way  to  him.  I  am  always  surprised  at  the  perfect 
contentment  in  which  they  seem  to  lie.  This  man  was 
swinging  in  his  hammock  in  darkness,  and  heat,  and 
damp,  without  a  creature  to  speak  to  him,  and  in  a  burn¬ 
ing  fever. 

B.  still  delirious  and  dying  fast ;  the  first  thing  he 
said  to  me  when  I  visited  him  this  afternoon  was,  “  Mr 
Martyn,  what  will  you  choose  for  a  kingdom  ?  ”.  .  . 
All  I  can  get  from  breakfast  and  at  night  I  thought  it 
right  to  give  to  Beasant,  who  is  still  on  1  he  borders  of  the 
grave  from  .  .  .  want  of  proper  meat  after  the  weakening 
effect  of  his  disease.  .  .  .  Among  the  sick  whom  I  went 
to  afterwards  I  found  but  one  sensible. 


152 


Henry  Martyn 


Word  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  that  Beasant 
had  jus  died.  He  was  crawling  upon  his  hands  and  knees 
to  hi  breakfast,  when  he  was  taken  worse  and  died  as 
they  were  lifting  him  into  his  hammock. 

Martyn  was  himself  a  sick  man  with  constant 
headache,  dysentery  and  64  a  distressing  sensation 
of  shortness  of  breath,”  contending  too  against 
“  nervous  irritability.”  And  how  he  did  contend, 
through  those  torpid  days  when  nerves  were  raw, 
forever  putting  himself  to  some  new  fence,  soul 
and  body  tensely  trained  for  the  enterprise  in  India 
that  was  never  far  from  his  thoughts. 

In  general  I  find,  that,  in  beginning  to  pray,  I  transport 
myself  in  imagination  to  some  solitary  spot  .  .  .  and 
there  fancy  myself  praying.  The  bad  consequence  of 
this  is  that  when  I  open  my  eyes  and  am  conversant  with 
the  things  around  me,  I  am  distressed  and  unable  to 
maintain  such  a  sense  of  God’s  presence ;  imagination 
seems  to  be  a  sort  of  help  like  music.  ...  Yet  I  feel 
that  I  ought  to  learn  to  live  without  it. 

Began  to  pray  for  the  setting  up  of  God’s  kingdom  .  .  . 
especially  in  India.  .  .  .  My  whole  soul  wrestled  with 
God.  I  knew  not  how  to  leave  off. 

After  two  months  at  sea  Martyn,  coming  on  deck 
early  from  his  sleepless  cabin,  “  saw  the  island  of 
Ceylon  bearing  west  three  or  four  leagues.  .  .  . 
The  smell  from  the  land  was  exceedingly  fragrant.” 
All  spirits  rose  and  on  April  25th  at  sunlight  the 
Union  anchored  in  the  Madras  roads.  Martyn, 
amid  a  white -clad  chattering  crowd,  went  ashore 
to  the  country  of  his  dreams.  A  round  of  invitations 
waited  for  him,  a  kindly  welcome  from  the  chaplain. 
Dr  Kerr,  and  pleasant  words  of  approval  from  the 
Governor,  Lord  William  Bentinck,  before  whom  he 
preached.  But  already  his  heart  was  given  to  the 


The  Nine  Months  at  Sea 


153 


east.  44  While  the  turbaned  Asiatics  waited  upon  us 
at  dinner  I  could  not  help  feeling  as  if  we  had  got 
into  their  places  ;  ”  he  was  perhaps  the  first  English¬ 
man  in  India  to  think  just  that  thought.  He  en¬ 
gaged  a  servant  who  44  could  speak  Hindustani,” 
and  escaping  from  the  European  settlement  walked 
out  with  him  by  field  paths  to  his  native  village. 
44  Here  all  was  Indian ;  no  vestige  of  anything 
European.”  Martyn,  for  the  first  time  alone  in 
the  east,  felt  now  the  power  of  the  spiritual  force 
against  which  his  life  was  hurled.  The  man  who 
stood  there  in  the  village  street,  though  frail  of 
body,  was  a  young  athlete  in  the  spiritual  realm. 
It  was  no  untrained  soul  that  felt  there  the  44  power 
of  the  air,”  and  shuddered 

as  if  in  the  dominions  of  the  prince  of  darkness.  I  fancy 
the  frown  of  God  to  be  visible  .  .  .  the  veil  of  the 
covering  cast  over  all  nations  seems  thicker  here ;  the 
fiends  of  darkness  seem  to  sit  in  sullen  repose  in  this  land. 


The  battle  was  set. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CALCUTTA,  1806 

The  mornings  are  so  pleasant  in  the  garden.  Very  early,  at 
about  three  in  the  morning,  the  Bheem-raj,  a  little  bird,  begins  his 
song  ;  hall  an  hour  afterwards,  all  the  bushes  and  trees  burst  into 
melody  .  .  .  and  the  gay  little  humming-birds,  with  their  brilliant 
colours,  dive  into  the  flowers  for  honey,  with  busy  twitters.  Oh, 
it  is  so  cool  and  pleasant  in  the  morning  till  ten  o’clock,  when  the 
warmth  increases  ;  from  noon  to  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  all 
is  quite  still,  except  some  lone  woodpecker  tapping  at  some  far-off 
tree. — Letter  of  Toru  Dutt  from  Garden  House,  Calcutta,  April 
25th,  1875. 

He  often  said  to  us  there  was  no  spot  in  the  world  so  dear  to 
him  as  Calcutta. — Mrs  Thomason  of  Henry  Martyn. 

As  the  Union  slowly  made  sail  up  the  Hooghly, 
her  sea-worn  passengers  feasting  their  eyes  on  the 
low  tranquil  shore,  she  was  met  by  the  Charlotte 
yacht  out  of  Calcutta,  sent  by  the  Company  to 
relieve  her  of  her  load  of  Government  treasure. 
Martyn  went  aboard  the  yacht,  hoping  that  the 
smaller  boat  would  make  Calcutta  faster.  That 
evening  they  lay  in  Garden  Reach,  “  very  beautiful  ” 
in  the  sunset  light.  Even  to  the  outward  eye  there 
were  changes  since  David  Brown  had  entered 
Garden  Reach  some  twenty  years  before.  The 
buildings  of  the  College  of  Fort  William  now  domin¬ 
ated  the  stately  sweep  of  the  Reach  from  the  north. 
And  beyond  them  again  rose  the  new  Government 
House,  both  buildings  outward  and  visible  signs  of 

154 


Calcutta ,  1806 


155 


a  new  dignity  that  was  coming  into  British  life  in 
India.  Martyn  was  to  learn  on  landing  of  the 
death  of  that  Governor- General  who  had  first  come 
to  India  in  the  same  year  as  David  Brown,  and 
also  of  the  great  minister  who  trusted  him.  For 
the  travellers  in  the  Union  had  yet  to  hear  of  the 
death  of  Pitt  and  of  Cornwallis.1 

When  in  David  Brown’s  first  year  of  service  * 
Cornwallis  came  to  Calcutta,  he  brought  her  no 
great  originative  mind  but  a  calm  and  dignified 
common  sense.  He  set  out  to  stabilize  life  in 
Bengal  and  finance  in  Leadenhall  Street  by  creating 
a  permanent  land  settlement,  a  conservative  Bengali 
landed  class,  and  a  fixed  revenue.  A  man  of  such 
clear-cut  and  limited  ideals  went  far  to  reach  them ; 
and  his  industrious  and  honest  fight  against  cor¬ 
ruption  meant  much  for  India.  But  he  aimed  at 
a  stable  and  static  condition,  and  in  the  long  run 
the  forces  of  life  are  against  the  man  who  tries  to 
bind  instead  of  to  direct  them. 

Under  Cornwallis,  the  first  peer  of  the  realm  whom 
the  merchant  city  had  received,  orgies  of  eating 
and  drinking  dear  to  Jos  Sedley  and  his  like  grew 
less,  and  Calcutta  assemblies  became  more  discreet 
and  dignified.  Church-going,  however,  was  not  yet 
in  fashion,  and  when  the  Governor-General  said  to 
David  Brown  that  the  new  Church  of  St  John  was 
“  a  pretty  Church,  but  it  had  many  critics,”  that 
worthy  desired  with  a  twinkle  that  it  might  have 
more  critics  on  a  Sunday. 

Sir  John  Shore’s  governorship  was  a  pale  and 

1  The  Govemors-General  since  David  Brown’s  arrival  were  Cornwallis, 
1786,  Sir  John  Shore,  1793,  Momington  (afterwards  Wellesley),  1798, 
Cornwallis  again  1805,  Sir  George  Barlow,  1805. 


156 


Henry  Martyn 


timid  sequel  to  that  of  Cornwallis.  Colour  and 
vigour  came  with  the  next  administration — colour 
indeed  that  appeared  on  the  river  in  a  state  barge 
of  green  and  gold  rowed  by  twenty  boatmen  in 
scarlet  turbans  and  rose-coloured  livery.  When 
Wellesley  on  his  death-bed  asked  to  be  buried  at 
Eton,  he  was  making  a  fitting  request.  The  out¬ 
look  that  he  brought  to  Calcutta  was  that  of  Eton 
and  the  Foreign  Office.  He  saw  his  work  in  India 
as  part  of  the  Napoleonic  struggle.  There  was  in 
his  mind  no  question  of  Indian  independence,  but 
only  of  a  desperate  race  between  the  French  and 
British  for  dominance  there. 

One  of  the  most  fantastic  fruits  of  the  French 
Revolution  had  been  the  planting  of  a  “  tree  of 
liberty  ”  in  the  dominions  of  Tipu,  Sultan  of  Mysore, 
while  that  autocrat  conducted  correspondence  with 
the  French  Directory  and  enrolled  himself  in  a 
republican  club  as  “  Citoyen  Tipu.” 

Wellesley  (then  Mornington),  the  friend  and  favour¬ 
ite  of  Pitt,  came  out  to  India  in  1798  conscious  that 
she  might  be  the  scene  of  a  death-grapple  with 
France,  which  had  the  islands  of  Mauritius  and 
Bourbon  for  an  assembling  place.  This  conscious¬ 
ness  grew  and  was  focussed  with  the  growth  of 
Napoleon’s  career.  If  he  took  Egypt  in  his  stride 
and  came  upon  India  inchoate  and  unprotected, 
he  might  indeed  become  lord  of  east  and  west. 
But  in  racing  Napoleon,  Wellesley  set  a  pace  too 
great  for  the  directors  in  Leadenhall  Street. 

One  of  their  letters  complains  sadly  that  “  neither 
His  Majesty’s  ministers  nor  the  Marquis  Wellesley 
appear  to  wish  to  shrink  from  responsibility.” 
When  in  1805  they  recalled  him  “  suspended  between 


Calcutta ,  1806 


*57 


admiration  and  reproach,”  he  left  them  responsible 
for  an  empire  but  looking  ruefully  at  their  purses, 
and  summing  up  the  results  of  his  administration 
as  “an  increased  revenue  of  five  millions,  and  a 
debt  contracted  of  twenty  millions  sterling.  The 
great  accession  of  territory  made  under  the  same 
government  has  necessarily  required  an  increased 
army,  at  least  so  long  as  the  power  of  France 
predominates.”  1 

They  recalled  him,  but  not  before  he  had  left 
his  mark  on  Calcutta.  On  reaching  Bengal  he 
had  not  disguised  his  horror  at  what  he  found. 
“  When  I  arrived  there  it  was  in  a  disgraceful  and 
a  lamentable  state.”  He  put  Calcutta  into  training 
as  the  capital  of  an  empire  and  introduced  a  new 
magnificence  into  the  life  of  the  dazzled  city.  Govern¬ 
ment  House  rose,  with  a  stately  entrance  and  cere¬ 
monial  stairway.  It  was  opened  with  a  breakfast 
to  seven  hundred  people.  Functions  must  now  be 
attended  in  full  dress  (white  linen  had  sufficed 
before)  and  no  longer  were  there  hookahs  in  attend¬ 
ance  at  the  Supreme  Council.  In  the  general 
tightening  up  of  easy-going  ways  Wellesley  expressed 
himself  as  shocked  to  find  that  divine  service  was 
never  held  at  his  suburban  residence  of  Barrackpore. 
He  was  no  friend  to  any  sort  of  laxity,  and  decided 
to  turn  church-going  into  one  of  the  official  functions 
of  Calcutta  life.  He  made  David  Brown  senior 
chaplain  and  helped  him  to  choose  the  lessons  for 
a  most  novel  function  in  Calcutta,  a  thanksgiving 
service  after  the  defeat  of  Citizen  Tipu,  to  which 
Wellesley  came,  and  his  great  soldier  brother,  in 
state  through  streets  lined  with  troops.  The  service 

1  Chatfield’s  Hindostan,  1808,  p.  123. 


158 


Henry  Martyn 


was  held  in  St  John’s  Church  with  a  sentry  and  his 
firelock  at  the  door,  and  servants  bearing  the  gold 
and  silver  maces  of  all  the  officials.  After  the 
fashion  of  the  day  when  the  state  wished  to  pay 
its  compliments  to  religion,  the  Governor- General 
ordered  Dr  Buchanan’s  sermon  to  be  printed  and 
circulated.  Calcutta  had  never  seen  such  doings  ; 
for  as  Burke  said,  “  The  Europeans  were  commonly 
unbaptized  in  their  passage  to  India.”  “  You  may 
easily  conceive,”  wrote  the  preacher,  44  the  astonish¬ 
ment  of  men  at  these  religious  proceedings.  How¬ 
ever,  all  was  silence  and  deep  acquiescence.  It 
became  fashionable  to  say  that  religion  was  a  very 
proper  thing.”  1  Society  began  to  come  to  church. 
Good  David  Brown,  serene  and  faithful  under 
patronage  as  under  contempt,  would  now  find 
the  streets  around  St  John’s  blocked  up  on  Sunday 
morning  with  coaches  and  lacquered  palanquins. 

The  Governor-General,  “  the  marvellous  little 
man  ”  as  his  subordinates  loved  to  call  him,  with 
his  unfailing  flair  for  the  right  man,  now  saw  in 
David  Brown  and  in  Claudius  Buchanan  who  had 
joined  him  in  1797,  the  very  leaders  needed  for  a 
scheme  that  was  to  alter  the  face  of  Indian  ad¬ 
ministration.  Writers  who  came  out  at  sixteen 
were  not,  in  Lord  Wellesley’s  opinion,  qualified 
to  govern  an  empire,  and  in  1800  he  sent  home  his 
4  4  Notes  on  the  necessity  of  a  special  collegiate 
training  of  civil  servants,”  marked  out  a  noble 
site  on  Garden  Reach,  put  up  a  worthy  building, 
gathered  together  upwards  of  one  hundred  learned 
teachers  of  eastern  languages,  law  and  literature, 
and  placed  this  whole  44  College  of  Fort  William  ” 

1  See  Hough,  Christianity  in  India,  IX.  1. 


Calcutta,  1806 


159 


under  the  provostship  (the  very  name  breathing 
his  love  for  Eton)  of  David  Brown. 

The  Vice-Provost  was  Claudius  Buchanan,  a  man 
of  restless  intellect,  who  had  run  away  from  the 
home  of  his  boyhood  with  a  fiddle  for  his  sole  means 
of  support,  and  now  after  strange  courses  had 
become  the  most  statesmanlike  ecclesiastic  of  the 
east,  and  Wellesley’s  trusted  chaplain.  The  pro¬ 
fessor  of  Bengali  was  a  yet  more  remarkable  man, 
William  Carey,  blent  of  genius  and  faith,  the  one¬ 
time  cobbler  and  Baptist  minister  in  Midland 
villages,  now  the  translator  of  the  New  Testament 
into  Bengali,  and  the  man  above  all  others  who  gave 
literary  form  to  that  tongue  whose  poetry  is  to-day 
one  of  the  joys  of  the  whole  earth. 

Carey  was  living  at  Serampore  under  Danish 
protection  because  of  the  Company’s  ban  on  mis¬ 
sionaries.  But  Wellesley  foresaw  that  Bengali 
must  one  day  replace  the  foreign  Persian  as  the 
language  of  justice,  and  he  determined  that  Bengali 
should  be  taught  in  the  new  college.  When  Brown 
and  Buchanan  vouched  for  Carey  as  the  one  man 
capable  of  superintending  the  Bengali  studies, 
Wellesley  choked  back  his  suspicions  (the  local 
press  not  knowing  what  a  “  Baptist  ”  might  be  had 
put  about  that  Carey  and  his  colleagues  were  Romish 
priests  in  the  pay  of  Napoleon)  and  called  forth 
Carey  from  his  seclusion  to  be  professor  of  Sanskrit 
and  Bengali. 

Wellesley  was  gone  when  Martyn  came.  They 
sent  out  Cornwallis  to  reverse  his  policy,  and 
Cornwallis  was  towed  up  the  river  in  Wellesley’s 
state  barge,  a  dying  man.  Sir  George  Barlow  now 
held  the  reins,  but  that  notable  trio  at  the  college 


i6o 


Henry  Martyn 


were  still  working  together  and  turning  out  men 
who  would  leave  their  mark  on  India. 

To  a  Calcutta  under  Sir  George  Barlow’s  rule, 
and  in  the  inevitable  tide  of  reaction  that  followed 
the  withdrawal  of  Wellesley’s  imperious  hand, 
Martyn  went  ashore  at  daylight  on  May  16th,  1806, 
and  asked  for  David  Brown.  He  was  fifteen  miles 
away  at  his  suburban  home,  Aldeen.  His  colleague 
Buchanan  had  sailed  out  of  the  Hooghly  as  Martyn 
entered  it,  and  so  it  came  about  that  the  first  man 
to  welcome  Martyn  to  Bengal  was  William  Carey. 
With  him,  so  different  in  upbringing,  so  like  in 
gifts  and  apostolic  spirit,  Martyn  sat  down  to  his 
first  breakfast  without  “the  smell  of  the  ship.” 
Carey  bald-headed,  unassuming,  almost  uncouth  in 
manner,  had  no  small  talk,  but  he  never  failed 
to  take  fire,  like  Martyn  himself,  if  the  talk  turned 
to  missions. 

With  him  I  breakfasted,  and  joined  with  him  in 
worship,  which  was  in  Bengalee,  for  the  advantage  of  a 
few  servants,  who  sat  however  perfectly  unmoved.  I 
could  not  help  contrasting  them  with  the  slaves  and 
Hottentots  at  Cape  Town  whose  hearts  seemed  to  burn 
within  them.  After  breakfast  Carey  began  to  translate 
with  a  Pundit  from  a  Sanskrit  manuscript. 

A  chit  from  Mr  Brown  during  the  morning  put 
his  Calcutta  house  at  Martyn’s  disposal — the 
chaplain’s  rooms  adjoining  St  John’s  Church.  There 
in  the  heart  of  the  city  where  the  moving  shadow 
of  the  spire  still  marks  the  glaring  hours  Martyn 
retired  for  solitude  and  prayer.  There  too  on  that 
first  day  he  was  hunted  out  by  “  Mr  Brown’s 
moonshi,  a  Brahmin  ”  who  “  came  in  and  disputed 
with  me  two  hours  about  the  Gospel.”  The  solitude 


Calcutta ,  1806 


161 


of  that  beginning,  broken  only  by  the  arguments  of 
the  learned  visitor,  are  a  strange  foreshadowing  of 
what  was  to  come. 

Mr  Brown  soon  came  to  Calcutta  and  bore  Martyn 
out  to  his  home  at  Aldeen,  buried  in  foliage  of 
mango,  teak  and  bamboo,  with  green  lawns  (since 
broken  up  into  tanks  for  the  Howrah  Water  Works) 
that  sloped  down  to  the  river  and  made  a  play¬ 
ground  for  his  flock  of  children.  Here  at  the  large 
family  table  where,  whoever  might  come,  motherly 
Mrs  Brown  always  made  room  for  one  guest  more, 
Martyn  found  his  Indian  home.  Of  David  Brown 
he  always  spoke  as  a  father,  and  Mr  Brown  wrote 
later  to  a  friend  that  44  Martyn  lived  five  months 
with  me,  and  a  more  heavenly-minded  young  man 
I  never  saw.”  It  was  pure  joy  to  Martyn  after 
work  to  romp  with  children.  A  friend  1  tells  us 
that  “  when  he  relaxed  from  his  labours  in  the 
presence  of  friends  it  was  to  play  and  laugh  like 
an  innocent,  happy  child,  more  especially  if  children 
were  present  to  play  and  laugh  with  him.”  Into 
that  grave  journal  of  his  there  creeps  a  line  that 
tells  much,  when  he  writes  of  returning  to  Aldeen 
with  44  children  jumping  and  shouting  and  convoying 
me  in  troops  to  the  house.  They  are  a  lovely 
family  indeed.” 

As  a  44  griffin  ”  or  new  arrival  in  Calcutta  Martyn 
had  calls  to  pay,  and  as  a  new  official  of  the  Company 
he  must  go  to  Government  House  and  be  presented 
to  Sir  George  Barlow,  who  had  an  unhappy  and 
repellent  coldness  of  manner  that  often  won  him 
personal  dislike  and  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
more  successful  with  Martyn  than  with  others. 

1  Mrs  Sherwood. 


L 


Henry  Martyn 


162 


“  After  waiting  a  considerable  time  in  a  crowd 
of  military  men,  an  aide-de-camp  presented  me  to 
Sir  G.  Barlow,  who  after  one  or  two  trifling  questions 
passed  on.”  At  a  later  levee  Martyn  received 
“  great  attention  ”  but  was  no  more  able  to  like 
the  Governor. 

Martyn  began  at  once  to  preach  for  David  Brown 
at  the  Old  Mission  Church,  and  his  Calcutta  friends 
did  their  best  to  keep  him  there,  carrying  their 
appeals  “  farther  than  mere  civility.”  Congenial 
as  his  new  friends  were,  the  thought  of  staying  in 
Calcutta  chafed  his  spirit.  He  knew  that  three 
of  the  six  chaplains  for  the  Company’s  fifty-three 
stations  in  Bengal  were  planted  there,  together 
with  the  group  of  Baptist  missionaries  under 
Carey’s  leadership  at  Serampore  ;  and  with  a  true 
instinct  he  felt  that  Calcutta  was  dominantly 
European,  a  foreign  merchant  settlement  upon  the 
mudheaps.  He  set  his  heart  on  a  chaplaincy  at  one 
of  the  great  inland  centres  of  population. 

Brown  and  Buchanan  wish  to  keep  me  here,  as  I 
expected,  and  the  Governor  accedes  to  their  wishes.  I 
have  a  great  many  reasons  for  not  liking  this  ;  I  almost 
think  that  to  be  prevented  going  among  the  heathen 
as  a  missionary  would  break  my  heart.  Whether  it 
be  self-will  or  aught  else,  I  cannot  yet  rightly  ascertain. 
.  .  .  I  feel  pressed  in  spirit  to  do  something  for  God. 
.  .  .  I  have  hitherto  lived  to  little  purpose  more  like  a 
clod  than  a  servant  of  God ;  now  let  me  burn  out  for  God. 

Amid  the  want  of  activity  and  decision  so  remarkable 
among  the  friends  of  religion  here  I  must  begin  at  last 
to  act  for  myself,  though  I  am  no  more  qualified  than  a 
child.  At  present  this  is  the  state  of  things,  I  wish  to 
fix  at  Benares.  ...  If  not  I  must  endeavour  to  be  fixed 
at  Patna  as  civil  chaplain.  ...  I  shall  endeavour  to 
have  an  audience  of  the  Governor- General. 


Calcutta,  1806 


163 

His  home  while  he  waited  for  the  decision  about 
his  station  was  in  a  pagoda  in  David  Brown’s  Aldeen 
garden,  overhanging  the  broad  river.  It  was  a 
weird  place  of  vaulted  cells,  its  bricks  carven  with 
many-armed  figures  of  Hindu  gods.  Once  it  had 
been  the  shrine  of  a  little  black  figure  wafted  there 
by  unseen  powers,  the  idol  Radhabullub  ;  but  the 
waters  of  the  sacred  river  lapped  closer  and  closer 
to  the  shrine,  until  it  stood  within  the  sacred  limit 
(300  feet  from  either  bank)  where  no  Brahmin  may 
eat  or  take  a  gift.  Then  Radhabullub  left  his 
shrine  and  retreated,  with  his  conch  shells,  his 
cymbals  and  his  offerings,  to  a  grove  beyond  the 
sacred  limit.  The  forsaken  temple,  added  by  David 
Brown  to  Aldeen  garden  ground,  was  made  by  him 
an  oratory.  This  eerie  home  of  crumbling  masonry 
and  creeping  vegetation  now  became  Martyn’s  cell. 
He  revelled  in  the  sense  of  solitude,  the  twittering 
birds,  or  the  moonlight  lying  placid  on  the  lawns  ; 
but  to  the  Cornish  saint,  as  to  St  Antony  in  the 
Egyptian  tomb,  haunting  evil  powers  were  not  far 
from  the  sometime  shrine. 

My  habitation,  assigned  me  by  Mr  Brown,  is  a  pagoda 
in  his  grounds,  on  the  edge  of  the  river.  Thither  I 
retired  at  night,  and  really  felt  something  like  super¬ 
stitious  dread,  at  being  in  a  place  once  inhabited  as  it 
were  by  devils,  but  yet  felt  disposed  to  be  triumphantly 
joyful,  that  the  temple  where  they  were  worshipped  was 
become  Christ’s  oratory.  I  prayed  out  aloud  to  my 
God,  and  the  echoes  returned  from  the  vaulted  roof.  .  .  . 
I  like  my  dwelling  much,  it  is  so  retired  and  free  from 
noise  ;  it  has  so  many  recesses  and  cells  that  I  can  hardly 
find  my  way  in  and  out. 

Here  on  a  platform  built  over  the  placid  lapping 
river,  Henry  Martyn  wrote  his  sermons  for  Calcutta 


164 


Henry  Martyn 


congregations  and  almost  grudged  the  time  they 
cost.  For  the  English  of  Calcutta  had  David  Brown 
to  their  shepherd,  and  he  was  constrained  to  press 
on  to  the  unshepherded.  Here  too  he  flung  himself 
greedily  on  Bengali  and  Persian  and  Hindustani, 
with  a  Brahmin  and  a  Moslem  teacher  with  whom 
he  would  sit  for  hours  as  they  introduced  him  for 
the  first  time  to  long  winding  oriental  arguments 
upon  religion,  interminable  as  the  flow  of  the  river 
under  his  pagoda.  In  Hindustani  especially  he  had 
made  gigantic  strides,  and  could  now  point  out  to 
his  teacher  mistakes  in  a  translation  of  Genesis. 
Sometimes  he  took  boat  down  to  the  College  of 
Fort  William  for  lessons  in  oriental  penmanship, 
learning  Hindustani  roots  in  the  boat  as  he  went, 
and  returning  perhaps  in  the  evening  with  a  crowd 
of  the  Aldeen  children  in  the  boat,  singing  across 
the  sunset  water. 

Here  in  the  pagoda,  too,  he  made  new  friendships. 
Five  minutes’  walk  along  the  river  bank  brought 
him  to  the  apostolic  settlement  of  Carey,  Marshman 
and  Ward,  the  immortal  trio  of  Serampore  mission¬ 
aries.  He  found  his  way  there  on  his  first  day  with 
David  Brown. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  we  walked  to  the  mission 
house,  a  few  hundred  yards  off,  and  I  at  last  saw  the  place 
about  which  I  have  so  long  read  with  pleasure ;  I  was 
introduced  to  all  the  missionaries.  We  sat  down  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  to  tea,  at  several  long  tables  in 
an  immense  room.  After  this  there  was  evening  service 
in  another  room  adjoining,  by  Mr  Ward.  .  .  .  With  Mr 
Marshman  alone  I  had  much  conversation. 

And  John  Clark  Marshman  became  more  than 
them  all  the  friend  of  Henry  Martyn.  He  was  the 


Calcutta ,  1 806 


165 


son  of  a  Wiltshire  weaver,  and  in  boyhood  had  often 
walked  a  dozen  miles  for  the  loan  of  a  book.  Now 
in  his  Serampore  house  Martyn  found  “  many  agree¬ 
able  sights  ”  ;  one  pundit  was  translating  Scripture 
into  Sanskrit,  another  into  Gujerati,  and  a  table 
was  covered  with  materials  for  a  Chinese  Dictionary. 
Pacing  up  and  down  Mr  Brown’s  garden  paths  at 
night,  Martyn  and  Marshman  cemented  their  friend¬ 
ship.  Martyn  entered  keenly  into  all  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  Serampore  community  :  the  tragic 
night  when  they  were  all  agog  to  welcome  Mr 
Chamberlain  and  his  wife,  only  to  find  that  Mrs 
Chamberlain  had  died  on  the  boat  :  the  Greek 
Testament  lectures  to  younger  missionaries  :  the 
preachings  to  wayside  groups  under  banyan  trees, 
or  to  immense  crowds  at  fair-time  :  or  the  night 
(when  Martyn  could  not  sleep  for  indignation)  of 
the  news  that  Sir  George  Barlow,  not  content  with 
the  ban  on  missionaries  in  British  territory,  had 
forbidden  the  captain  of  an  American  vessel  to 
land  two  who  were  bound  for  Serampore  under  the 
protection  of  the  King  of  Denmark. 

In  long  evenings  of  talk  beside  the  river  the 
friends  would  touch  on  deeper  questions.  “  He  is 
a  most  lively  sanguine  missionary,”  Martyn  wrote 
of  Marshman,  “  and  made  my  heart  burn  within 
me.”  His  friend  tried  to  persuade  Martyn  to  stay, 
for  the  present  at  least,  in  the  Bible  factory  that 
the  dauntless  men  of  Serampore  had  established 
in  their  house  for  the  translation  of  Holy  Scripture 
into  all  the  main  tongues  of  the  east.  The  work 
was  after  Martyn’s  own  heart.  He  coveted  for  it 
the  scholarship  of  Cambridge.  Why,  he  asked 
Sargent,  should  it  be  left  to  men  “  who  cannot  in 


Henry  Martyn 


1 66 


ten  years  supply  the  want  of  what  we  gain  by  a 
classical  education  ?  ”  But  he  was  perfectly  con¬ 
vinced  that  the  call  to  stay  in  or  near  Calcutta  was 
not  the  call  for  him. 

A  yet  dearer  friend  came  to  the  pagoda,  a  junior 
,  of  Cambridge  days,  Daniel  Corrie,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Madras.  That  plain-faced,  genial  person, 
adoring  children  and  adored  by  them,  fighting 
down  the  claims  of  rare  social  popularity,  had 
recorded  his  desire  to  44  become  the  world’s 
fool  for  the  sake  of  Christ  ” ;  and  inspired  by 
Simeon,  but  still  more  by  Martyn,  now  followed 
his  friend  to  an  Indian  chaplaincy.  As  he  lay 
in  the  Hooghly  a  note  came  to  him  to  say  that 
Martyn  was  awaiting  him  at  the  College  of  Fort 
William. 

44 1  set  off  immediately,”  says  Corrie,  44  and  was 
received  by  him  with  the  most  lively  demonstrations 
of  joy.”  It  was  pure  delight  to  Martyn  to  see 
that  genial  expansive  countenance  again,  and  to 
introduce  his  friend  to  David  Brown.  (44  A  sensible, 
determined  pious  man  ”  was  Corrie’s  comment  in 
his  journal.)  Martyn  as  guide  to  Calcutta  took 
the  newcomer  for  a  drive  on  the  dusty  44  Course  ” 
that  evening,  44  as  if  I  meant  to  exhibit  my  re¬ 
inforcement.” 

Corrie  found  Martyn  eating  his  heart  out  at  delay 
in  Calcutta.  The  sights  around  him  were  burning 
themselves  into  his  spirit,  as  not  unsimilar  sights 
had  stirred  the  spirit  of  St  Paul.  From  his  pagoda 
he  could  watch  the  crowds  who  climbed  the  ghat 
to  worship  Radhabullub.  Into  his  prayers  or  his 
translation  work  there  broke  the  clang  of  gongs, 
with  drums  or  conch  shells  from  the  god’s  new 


Calcutta ,  1806 


167 


shrine — “  detestable  music  ”  to  him.  He  went  to 
visit  the  temple  : 

The  way  up  to  it  was  by  a  flight  of  steps  on  each  side. 
The  people  to  the  number  of  about  fifty  were  standing 
on  the  outside,  and  playing  the  instruments.  In  the 
centre  of  the  building  was  the  idol,  a  little  ugly  black 
image,  about  two  feet  high,  with  a  few  lights  burning 
round  him.  At  intervals  they  prostrated  themselves 
with  their  foreheads  to  the  earth.  I  shivered  at  being 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  hell. 

Again,  he  went  to  see  the  great  Juggernaut  car 
in  procession  near  Aldeen.  When  the  car  stopped 
at  a  neighbouring  shrine  “  the  god,  with  one  or  two 
attending  deities,  was  let  down  by  ropes,  muffled 
up  in  red  cloths.”  Holy  water  was  poured  over 
the  image,  and  Martyn  heard  the  great  shout  of 
the  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  people  who 
stood  with  uplifted  hands  to  watch  this  ceremony. 

Before  the  stumps  of  images,  for  they  were  not  better, 
some  of  the  people  prostrated  themselves,  striking  the 
ground  twice  with  their  foreheads.  This  excited  more 
horror  in  me  than  I  can  well  express.  ...  I  thought 
that  if  I  had  words  I  would  preach  to  the  multitudes  all 
day  if  I  lost  my  life  for  it. 

Corrie,  more  than  most  of  Martyn ’s  friends, 
entered  into  his  haunting  sense  of  the  evil  “  power 
of  the  air.”  He  tells  of  one  evening  when  he  was 
dining  at  Aldeen,  and  their  eyes  were  attracted  by 
a  flame  that  rose  and  quivered  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  river. 

We  soon  perceived  that  it  was  a  funeral  pile,  on  which 
the  wife  was  burning  with  the  dead  body  of  her  husband 
...  by  the  light  of  the  flames  we  could  discover  a  great 
crowd  of  people,  their  horrid  noise,  and  senseless  music, 
joined  with  the  testimony  of  some  of  the  servants,  con- 


Henry  Martyn 


1 68 


vinced  us  that  our  apprehensions  were  founded  on  fact. 
The  noise  continued  until  ten  o’clock,  and  the  fire  was 
kept  burning  till  that  time.  My  mind  was  struck  with 
horror  and  pity.  On  going  out  to  walk  with  Martyn  to 
the  pagoda,  the  noise  so  unnatural,  so  little  calculated  to 
excite  joy,  raised  in  my  mind  an  awful  sense  of  the 
presence  and  influence  of  evil  spirits. 

So  Martyn  waited  in  Calcutta,  constrained  in 
spirit,  reading  the  life  of  St  Francis  Xavier, 
“  exceedingly  roused  at  the  astonishing  example 
of  that  great  man,”  and  raising  in  the  city  just 
such  a  storm  as  he  had  excited  on  the  Union  by 
his  uncompromising  sermons.  At  the  Old  Mission 
Church  his  earnestness  was  deeply  acceptable,  but 
St  John’s  was  a  scene  of  trial.  It  still  stands  much 
as  Martyn  saw  it,  in  the  heart  of  Calcutta  with 
Zoffany’s  queer  altarpiece  of  the  Last  Supper, 
drawn  with  all  the  faces  taken  from  old  Calcutta 
characters.  Those  Sunday  morning  services  at 
which  Martyn  sometimes  preached  before  Sir  George 
Barlow  and  his  staff  were  all  but  government 
functions.  In  side  galleries  (now  pulled  down) 
sat  the  great  ones  of  Calcutta ;  the  Governor- 
General  on  one  side,  facing  the  judges  of  the  supreme 
court  on  the  other.  Behind  the  judges  on  the 
north,  as  being  the  cooler  side,  sat  the  government 
ladies  who  had  come  in  palanquins,  wearing  caps 
or  turbans  of  sufficient  gorgeousness  to  flaunt  under 
the  Governor’s  very  eye.  Lesser  folk  were  ranged  on 
chairs  on  the  blue  marble  floor  below.  Here,  before 
all  the  great  ones  of  that  little  world,  the  new 
chaplain  stood  up  to  preach. 

I  knew  what  I  was  to  be  on  my  guard  against — and 
therefore,  that  I  might  not  have  my  mind  full  of  idle 
thoughts  about  the  opinions  of  men,  I  prayed  both  before 


Calcutta ,  1806 


169 


and  after,  that  the  word  might  be  for  the  conversion  of 
souls,  and  that  I  might  feel  indifferent  except  on  this 
score.  The  sermon  excited  no  small  ferment ;  however, 
after  some  looks  of  surprise  and  whispering,  the  con¬ 
gregation  became  attentive  and  serious. 

Afterwards  the  storm  burst  :  two  other  chaplains 
of  the  Company  felt  it  their  duty  to  preach  counter¬ 
blasts  in  which  they  even  appealed  by  name  to 
their  new  colleague  to  turn  from  doctrines  so 
“  inconsistent,  extravagant  and  absurd,”  and  de¬ 
scribed  him  (he  sitting  in  the  church  the  while) 
as  “  one  of  those  who  understand  neither  what  they 
say  nor  whereof  they  affirm.”  Even  to  a  man  of 
Martyn’s  humility  such  orations  were  not  altogether 
easy  to  listen  to,  and  it  is  a  very  gracious  gesture 
of  his  spirit  that  he  describes  in  a  rather  stilted 
sentence  when  he  says,  “  I  rejoiced  at  having  the 
Sacrament  of  the  Lord’s  Supper  afterwards,  the 
solemnities  of  that  blessed  ordinance  sweetly  tended 
to  soothe  the  asperities  and  dissipate  the  contempt 
which  was  rising.  I  think  I  administered  the  cup 

to - and - [the  opposing  chaplains]  with  sincere 

goodwill.”  The  storm  was  at  its  height  when  Corrie 
landed  and  we  have  the  comment  of  the  man  who 
had  the  art  of  disarming  opposition  on  his  friend 
who  so  often  aroused  it  : 

A  great  opposition,  I  find,  is  raised  against  Martyn 
and  the  principles  he  preaches.  ...  At  three  o’clock 
Martyn  preached  from  Rom.  iii.  21-23,  the  most 
impressive  and  best  composition  I  ever  heard.  The 
disposition  of  love  and  goodwill  which  appeared  in  him 
must  have  had  great  effect ;  and  the  calmness  and 
firmness  with  which  he  spoke  raised  in  me  great  wonder. 

Perhaps  the  authorities  were  not  reluctant  to 
send  their  firebrand  chaplain  out  of  Calcutta  ;  be 


Henry  Martyn 


170 

that  as  it  may  his  summons  came  at  last  to  an  up- 
country  station,  and  on  September  14,  1806,  he 
wrote  to  Sargent,  “  I  am  this  day  appointed  to 
Dinapore  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Patna.” 

Patna  was  in  those  days  some  six  weeks  from 
Calcutta,  travelling  by  a  leisurely  house-boat  towed 
against  the  stream.  The  Browns,  and  indeed  the 
whole  friendly  Calcutta  group  who  had  hoped  to 
keep  Martyn  amongst  them,  quailed  at  the  thought 
of  sending  him  out  alone.  He  had  already  shown 
them  his  helplessness  in  sickness,  when  it  was  his 
way  to  stagger  on  where  a  wiser  man  would  have 
yielded.  They  dreaded  the  effect  of  solitude  on 
his  tense  nature,  and  while  they  told  him  their 
kindly  fears,  the  phantom  form  of  Lydia  was  once 
more  haunting  his  every  thought. 

July  12th,  1806.  Found  Europe  letters.  .  .  .  My 
letters  were  from  Lydia,  T.  H.  and  Emma,  Mr  Simeon 
and  Sargent.  All  their  first  letters  had  been  taken  in  the 
Bell  Packet.  I  longed  to  see  Lydia’s.  .  .  .  The  one  I 
did  receive  from  her  was  very  animating.  .  .  .  Mr 
Simeon’s  letter  contained  her  praises,  and  even  he  seemed 
to  regret  that  I  had  gone  without  her. 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it  !  A  letter  from  Lydia.  She 
had  sent  him  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with 
44  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  pillow  at  night  ” 
and  with  no  leave  to  correspond  with  her.  In  her 
own  eyes  she  was  not  free  to  marry,  for  Mr  John’s 
wedding  had  never  taken  place.  Had  she  been 
wise  she  would  have  let  ill  alone.  But  Lydia,  for 
all  her  real  goodness,  was  not  of  the  heroic  build. 
She  could  not  (as  she  thought)  accept  Henry’s  km  ; 
nor  could  she  bear  to  let  it  go  entirely  out  of  her 
life,  and  a  few  months  after  Martyn ’s  departure 


Calcutta ,  1806 


171 


she  began  sending  letters  after  him.  A  series  of 
six  she  despatched,  of  which  the  first  had  been  lost 
at  sea.  Sisterly  or  cousinly  letters  she  would  have 
called  them,  but  they  served  to  rouse  in  Martyn 
all  his  buried  hopes.  What  lover  would  not  have 
found  it  “  animating  ”  to  be  told  that  his  lady 
prayed  for  him  many  times  every  day?  Was  not 
his  Lydia  giving  him  now  the  answer  that  she  was 
not  ready  to  give  in  the  moment  of  hurried  parting  ? 
Martyn  took  the  letter  to  David  Brown  who 
certainly  understood  from  it  that  the  lady  was  to 
be  won  if  she  were  not  won  already.  His  fatherly 
heart  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  care  and  sympathy 
for  his  young  saint,  so  determined  to  strike  out  a 
lonely  course.  After  such  a  consultation  Martyn’s 
journal  says  that  Mr  Brown  “  strongly  recom¬ 
mended  the  measure  of  endeavouring  to  bring  her 
here,  and  was  clear  that  my  future  situation  in 
the  country  would  be  such  as  to  make  it  necessary 
to  be  married.” 

A  letter  from  Colonel  Sandys,  which  he  opened  after¬ 
wards,  spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  her.  .  .  .  Sat  up 
late  with  Mr  Brown,  considering  the  same  subject  .  .  . 
and  it  dwelt  so  much  on  my  mind,  that  I  got  hardly  any 
sleep  the  whole  night. 

Next  day  : 

Mr  Brown’s  arguments  appear  so  strong  that  my  mind 
is  almost  made  up  to  send  for  Lydia. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Martyn  sat  down  in  the 
pagoda  to  write  his  first  love  letter  : 

July  29 thy  1806.  Much  of  this  morning  taken  up  in 
writing  to  Lydia.  .  .  .  Staid  up  till  midnight  in  finishing 
the  letter  to  Lydia. 


172 


Henry  Martyn 


It  was  very  long,  as  the  letter  would  be  of  one 
hitherto  pent  up  in  silence  and  at  last  able  to  write 
his  love.  There  was  much  to  be  said  too,  for  this 
was  a  letter  with  a  definite  proposal  that  she  should 
break  through  all  her  timidities  and  come  to  him. 
His  pen  flew  on  after  the  last  boat  had  splashed 
homeward  on  the  river  and  the  night  was  broken 
only  by  the  wash  of  water  or  the  sudden  cry  of  a 
bird.  But  it  was  no  unrestrained  pen,  the  letter 
breathes  a  discipline  of  spirit  remarkable  in  any 
lover,  but  learned  only  at  severest  cost  by  so 
passionate  a  soul. 

My  Dearest  Lydia, — 

...  I  wish  to  assure  you  that  I  am  not  acting 
without  much  consideration  and  prayer,  while  I  at  last 
sit  down  to  request  you  to  come  out  to  me  in  India. 

...  A  few  weeks  ago  we  received  your  welcome 
letter,  and  others  from  Mr  Simeon  and  Colonel  Sandys, 
both  of  whom  spoke  of  you  in  reference  to  me.  .  .  .  Mr 
Simeon  seemed  in  his  letter  to  me  to  regret  that  he  had 
so  strongly  dissuaded  me  from  thinking  about  you  at 
the  time  of  my  leaving  England.  .  .  .  Mr  Brown  became 
very  earnest  for  me  to  endeavour  to  prevail  upon  you. 
Your  letter  to  me  perfectly  delighted  him  and  induced 
him  to  say  that  you  would  be  the  greatest  aid  to  the 
mission  I  could  possibly  meet  with.  .  .  .  Now  with  a  safe 
conscience  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  divine  presence  I 
calmly  and  deliberately  make  the  proposal  to  you.  .  .  . 
If  He  shall  forbid  it,  I  think,  that  by  His  grace,  I  shall 
even  then  be  contented.  ...  It  can  be  nothing  but  a 
sacrifice  on  your  part. 

There  follow  assurances  about  the  voyage  and 
the  climate,  so  dreadful  and  so  unknown  to  the 
Cornish  friends  ;  his  salary  will  keep  her  in  com¬ 
fort,  and  there  will  be  English  ladies  at  hand. 
Can  she  be  ready  to  sail  in  the  February  fleet  ? 


I 


Calcutta ,  1806 


173 


(The  impatience  of  the  lover  made  him  over-sanguine 
about  dates.  Lydia  did  not  receive  his  letter  until 
March.)  She  is  to  come  out  as  44  guest  to  Mr 
Brown  ”  in  any  ship  where  there  is  a  lady  of  high 
rank  in  the  service  to  chaperon  her.  And  will 
she  take  Gilchrist’s  Indian  Strangers'  Guide 1  on 
the  voyage  ?  (a  work  in  which  she  could  learn  to 
read  in  romanized  character  such  Hindustani 
sentences  as  44  Hand  me  the  tooth-brush  and 
powder,”  44 1  want  a  palanquin  and  bearers,” 
44  Brush  the  curtains  well  that  no  mosquitoes  may 
remain.”) 

Then,  as  it  drew  on  to  midnight  and  the  long 
letter  must  come  to  a  close,  the  lover  in  the  ghostly 
pagoda  allowed  himself  to  speak. 

You  say  in  your  letter  that  frequently  every  day  you 
remember  my  worthless  name  before  the  throne  of  grace. 
This  instance  of  extraordinary  and  undeserved  kindness 
draws  my  heart  towards  you  with  a  tenderness  which  I 
cannot  describe.  Dearest  Lydia,  in  the  sweet  and  fond 
expectation  of  your  being  given  to  me  by  God,  and  of  the 
happiness  which  I  humbly  hope  you  yourself  might 
enjoy  here,  I  find  a  pleasure  in  breathing  out  my  assurance 
of  ardent  love. 

To  his  vivid  imagination  his  Lydia  was  almost 
there.  “As  soon  as  she  arrives  in  the  river,”  he 
wrote  to  Simeon,  44  Mrs  Brown  (a  most  sensible 
and  zealous  woman)  will  go  down  fifty  or  sixty 
miles  to  bring  her  up,  so  that  she  will  not  have 
the  least  trouble.”  44 1  please  myself  with  the 
idea  of  visiting  these  places  the  next  time  in  com¬ 
pany  with  Lydia,  and  of  walking  with  her  morning 

1  The  Strangers'  East  Indian  Guide  to  the  Hindoostanee  or  Grand 
Popular  Language  of  India  ( improperly  called  Moors),  by  J.  Gilchrist. 


i74 


Henry  Martyn 


and  evening  on  these  delightful  banks.”  “  Every¬ 
thing  I  see  or  do  is  a  source  of  pleasure.” 

Her  letters  meanwhile  only  buoyed  up  his  hopes. 
“My  dearest  Lydia’s  assurances  of  her  love  are 
grateful  to  my  heart.”  But  she  was  yet  in  Cornwall, 
and  the  immediate  business  was  to  send  Henry 
Martyn  off  alone  to  his  new  station. 

The  Aldeen  family  and  the  Serampore  mission¬ 
aries  came  to  the  pagoda  for  a  farewell  meeting. 
They  told  him  that  they  were  “  alarmed  about  the 
solitariness  of  his  future  life.”  At  that  moment 
he  could  hardly  know  alarm.  The  strange  inter¬ 
action  of  body,  mind  and  spirit  were  producing  in 
him  something  more  like  exultation.  Warmth  and 
sunshine  had  for  the  moment  stayed  or  seemed  to 
stay  the  tendency  to  disease.  Hope  had  flooded 
the  heart  of  the  lover.  And  the  disciple  saw  before 
him  at  last  the  longed-for  task  allotted  to  him  by 
his  Master’s  hand.  So,  while  they  sang  and  prayed 
under  the  echoing  vault,  he  was  exultant  :  “  My 
soul  never  before  had  such  divine  enjoyment  .  .  . 
my  joy  was  too  great  for  my  body.  I  was  in  actual 
pain.  .  .  .  How  sweet  to  walk  with  Jesus — to 

love  Him  and  to  die  for  Him.” 

Next  morning  he  took  a  house-boat  and  passed 
away  from  the  Aldeen  garden  and  the  community 
at  Calcutta  that  would  so  gladly  have  kept  him 
in  their  midst. 


CHAPTER  IX 


DINAPORE 

No  man  (not  an  Anabaptist)  will,  we  presume,  contend  that  it 
is  our  duty  to  lay  before  them  so  fully  and  emphatically  the  scheme 
of  the  Gospel  as  to  make  them  rise  up  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
and  shoot  their  instructors  through  the  head.  If  conversion  be  the 
greatest  of  all  objects,  the  possession  of  the  country  to  be  con¬ 
verted  is  the  only  means,  in  this  instance,  by  which  that  conversion 
can  be  accomplished. — Sydney  Smith’s  view  of  Indian  Missions, 
from  the  Edinburgh  Review ,  April ,  1808. 

Let  me  be  torn  to  pieces,  and  my  dear  Lydia  tom  from  me  ;  or 
let  me  labour  for  fifty  years  amidst  scorn,  and  never  seeing  one 
soul  converted ;  .  .  .  Though  the  heathen  rage  and  the  English 
people  imagine  a  vain  thing,  the  Lord  Jesus,  who  controls  all 
events  is  my  friend,  my  master,  my  God,  my  all. — Henry  Martyn’s 
view  of  his  life-work  on  arrival  at  Dinapore,  December,  1806. 

Four  of  the  Calcutta  friends  brought  Martyn  on 
his  way  up  the  river,  till  bad  weather  turned  them 
back,  and  he  was  left  for  six  weeks  of  leisurely 
travel  alone  with  his  Moslem  language  teacher  and 
his  company  of  servants  and  boatmen.  All  day 
they  towed  the  boat  up-stream  and  at  sunset  made 
her  fast  and  lighted  cooking  fires  on  the  bank. 

Cut  off  as  he  was  from  all  but  Indian  scenes,  the 
river  became  his  teacher  as  she  bore  him  slowly 
through  the  teeming  land.  She  scowled  at  first 
and  showed  him  her  angry  face  in  such  a  storm 
as  that  of  which  Tagore  wrote  1  that  it  “  droned 
like  a  giant  snake-charmer’s  pipe,  and  to  its  rhythm 

1  In  Glimpses  of  Indian  Life. 


175 


176 


Henry  Martyn 


swayed  hundreds  and  thousands  of  crested  waves, 
like  so  many  hooded  snakes.” 

I  was  rather  anxious  about  your  little  boat  the  day 
you  left  me,  [wrote  Martyn  to  Mr  Brown]  it  blew  so 
violently.  As  soon  as  you  were  out  of  sight,  the  men 
laid  down  the  rope  and  would  not  track  any  more  for 
the  day.  They  were  about  to  put  back  into  a  nullah 
[a  tributary  water-course,  the  refuge  of  small  craft 
during  river  storms]  but  found  that  preoccupied  by  so 
many  boats,  that  we  were  obliged  to  lie  on  the  naked 
shore,  exposed  to  the  direct  stream  and  wind.  The 
budgerow  made  a  good  deal  of  water  by  beating  about 
on  the  ground.  ' 

But  in  general  the  house-boat  passed  placidly 
on  the  face  of  a  full  and  gliding  stream  between 
banks  that  showed  Martyn  in  an  endless  picture 
the  life  of  Bengal  in  pleasant  October  days  :  muddy 
children  splashing  at  the  waterside ;  sesame  or 
towering  hemp  plants  standing  tall  against  the 
sky ;  cotton  pods  bursting  milky-white  ;  rustling 
winds  swaying  water-rice  sown  on  the  river  silt ; 
coloured  groups  where  women  stood  in  the  water 
bathing  and  washing  clothes  ;  bamboo  stakes  hung 
with  fishing  nets  spread  out  to  dry  ;  “  sweet  fields 
dressed  in  living  green  ”  where  the  new-sown  wheat 
was  springing ;  clusters  of  thatched  roofs  among 
shivering  bamboos  or  plantains ;  each  village  of 
those  days  guarded  by  its  own  absurd  mud  fort ; 
paddy  birds  standing  in  line  where  mud  and 
water  meet ;  and  over  all  the  wheeling  kites 
watching  the  river  life  with  the  keen  eye  of 
hunger. 

Through  the  sunny  hours  when  the  servants 
liked  to  roll  themselves  in  cotton  sheets  and  sleep 
on  the  roof  of  the  house-boat,  Martyn  sat  at  his 


Dinapore 


177 


books,  sometimes  with  his  teacher  at  Hindustani 
and  Bengali,  sometimes  alone  at  Sanskrit. 

Tell  Marshman  with  my  affectionate  remembrances 
that  I  have  seriously  begun  the  Sanscrit  grammar,  but 
I  cannot  say  whereabouts  I  am  in  it,  being  enveloped 
at  present  in  a  thick  cloud  with  the  exceptions,  limita¬ 
tions,  anomalies,  etc. 

Sanscrit  sleeps  a  little,  though  I  am  daily  more 
convinced  of  the  need  of  it  in  order  to  know  the  country 
Hindoostanee. 

Hindustani  he  was  making  more  and  more  his 
own  as  Carey  had  made  Bengali.  He  brought  to 
the  language  already  some  knowledge  of  Persian 
and  Arabic  from  which  on  the  one  side  it  traced 
descent,  and  he  was  now  adding  Sanskrit,  its  parent 
on  the  other  side,  and  so  fitting  himself  for  a  critical 
mastery  of  its  form  and  vocabulary.  Already,  after 
six  months  in  the  country,  he  could  write  to 
Marshman  at  Serampore  with  a  list  of  mistakes 
in  one  of  their  Hindustani  tracts. 

He  brought  also  the  delicate  ear  that  was  quick 
to  detect  changes  of  dialect  as  he  passed  from 
village  to  village  on  the  Hooghly  and  the  Ganges. 
So  the  river  days  glided  by.  44  Reading  hard  all 
day.”  44  Employed  all  the  day  in  translating,  in 
which  work  the  time  passes  away  pleasantly  and 
rapidly.  The  cold  mornings  and  evenings  begin  to 
be  very  severe.” 

At  sunset  when  the  gaily-painted  “  budgerow  ” 
was  moored,  the  boatmen  in  little  circles  round 
their  supper  fires  smoked  coco-nut  hookahs  or  told 
interminable  tales.  And  Martyn  went  ashore  for 
exercise  ;  sometimes  with  his  gun,  bringing  home 
snipe  or  minas  44  enough  to  make  a  change  with 

M 


178 


Henry  Martyn 


the  curry  ”  ;  sometimes  with  New  Testaments  or 
some  of  the  leaflets  printed  at  Serampore.  He 
would  plunge  into  villages  where  no  “  sahib  ”  had 
been  seen  before,  scaring  away  graceful  companies 
of  women  as  they  came  up  from  the  river  with 
dripping  saris,  the  household  waterpots  balanced 
against  their  flanks. 

One  day  he  was  shown  the  fresh  footprint  of  a 
tiger  ;  another  day  the  trail  of  wild  buffaloes  was 
on  the  path.  The  Journal  is  full  of  glimpses  of 
the  myriad  life  of  India. 

Went  ashore  and  ascended  an  eminence  to  look  at  the 
ruins  of  a  mosque.  The  grave  of  a  Mussalman  1  warrior 
killed  in  battle,  and  a  room  over  it,  were  in  perfect 
preservation  ;  and  lamps  are  lighted  there  every  night. 
We  saw  a  few  more  of  the  hill-people,  one  of  whom  had 
a  bow  and  arrows  ;  they  were  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone  ; 
and  went  off,  men,  women  and  children,  into  their  native 
woods.  As  I  was  entering  the  boat,  I  happened  to 
touch  with  my  stick  the  brass  pot  of  one  of  the  Hindoos, 
in  which  rice  was  boiling.  So  defiled  are  we  in  their 
sight,  that  the  pollution  passed  from  my  hand,  through 
the  stick  and  the  brass  to  the  meat.  He  rose  and  threw 
it  all  away. 

He  talked  with  all  and  sundry,  testing  his 
Hindustani  wherever  he  could  find  a  friendly  soul 
ready  to  chat  with  him  : 

All  ran  away  when  they  saw  me,  except  one  poor  old 
woman  who  was  ill,  and  begged.  Though  she  spoke 
clearly  enough,  I  could  scarcely  understand  one  of  her 
words,  so  that  I  have  quite  a  new  language  to  learn. 
When  she  received  half  a  rupee,  she  was  mute  with 
astonishment. 

People  in  general  were  shy  of  taking  his  books, 

1  M&rtyn  writes  Mussalman  where  we  write  Moslem  or  more  correctly 
Muslim. 


Dinapore 


179 


but  once  when  he  had  given  away  some  New 
Testaments  he  wrote  : 

My  fame  arrived  here  before  me,  and  some  men  had 
travelled  on  from  the  spring,  having  heard  that  Sahib 
was  giving  away  copies  of  the  Ramayuna  !  I  told  them 
it  was  not  the  Ramayuna,  but  something  better,  and 
parted  with  as  many  as  I  could  spare.  One  poor  fellow 
who  was  selling  gun-rods  followed  the  budgerow  along 
the  walls  of  the  fort ;  and  finding  an  opportunity  got 
on  board,  and  begged  and  intreated  me  for  one,  even 
with  tears.  As  I  hesitated,  having  given  as  many  as 
I  could  spare  for  one  place,  he  prostrated  himself  on  the 
earth,  and  placed  his  forehead  in  the  dust ;  at  which  I 
felt  an  indescribable  horror,  so  I  could  not  hold  out. 
When  he  got  it  he  clasped  it  with  rapture,  still  thinking 
it  to  be  the  Ramayuna. 

So  gliding  through  the  teeming  land  he  came 
at  last  to  Patna  and  its  European  suburbs  of 
Dinapore  (military)  and  Bankipore  (civil),  his  new 
parish,  the  whole  stretching  for  fourteen  miles  along 
the  bank  of  the  river  which  here  is  two  miles  wide. 

By  an  early  and  all -but -forgotten  statute  of  the 
East  India  Company  it  was  the  duty  of  their 
chaplains  to  teach  the  natives  at  their  stations, 
and  Henry  Martyn,  eager  as  he  was  for  the  task, 
“  was  almost  overwhelmed  ”  at  the  sight  of  “  the 
immense  multitudes  ”  in  this  the  second  city  of 
Bengal — “  the  multitudes  at  the  waterside  pro¬ 
digious.” 

He  left  the  house-boat  for  barrack  quarters  and 
surveyed  the  work  before  him.  4 4 1  have  now 
made  my  calls  and  delivered  my  letters,  and  the 
result  of  my  observations  upon  whom  and  what 
I  have  seen  is  that  I  stand  alone,”  he  wrote  to  the 
Aldeen  friends.  The  East  India  Company’s  troops, 
of  which  two  regiments  were  stationed  at  Dinapore, 


i8o 


Henry  Martyn 


were  a  reckless  fighting  force  of  adventurers  from 
many  European  nations,  and  ne’er-do-weels  from 
English  families.  Others  besides  Martyn  found  them 
“  disdainful  and  abandoned.”  There  was  no  church,, 
and  he  was  expected  to  conduct  service  at  the 
drumhead,  either  in  a  barrack  room  with  no  seats 
or  in  one  of  the  two  squares  of  the  cantonments, 
with  no  shade  from  the  Indian  sun.  “  After  seeing 
the  European  regiment  drawn  up  I  felt  as  I  used 
to  feel  on  board  ship.” 

The  civilians  at  Bankipore  had  never  had  a 
service  and  were  embarrassed  when  the  new  chaplain 
offered  to  come  and  give  them  one,  more  especially 
as  the  judge  had  married  a  Moslem  wife,  abandoned 
his  faith  and  built  a  mosque  to  please  her,  which 
Martyn  found  on  his  first  call  decked  out  with 
flags  and  lanterns  for  a  Moslem  feast.  But  little 
desirous  as  his  countrymen  seemed  to  be  of  his 
services  for  themselves,  they  approved  still  less 
of  his  intercourse  with  the  people  of  the  great 
Indian  city. 

They  seem  to  hate  to  see  me  associating  at  all  with 
the  natives,  and  one  gave  me  a  hint  a  few  days  ago  about 
taking  my  exercise  on  foot.  But  if  our  Lord  had  always 
travelled  about  in  His  palanquin,  the  poor  woman,  who 
was  healed  by  touching  the  hem  of  His  garment  might 
have  perished. 

Our  countrymen,  when  speaking  of  the  natives,  said 
as  they  usually  do,  that  they  cannot  be  converted,  and 
if  they  could,  they  would  be  worse  than  they  are. 
Though  I  have  observed  before  now,  that  the  English 
are  not  in  the  way  of  knowing  much  about  the  natives, 
yet  the  number  of  difficulties  they  mentioned  proved 
another  source  of  discouragement  to  me. 

Martyn  annoyed  the  General  “  by  what  I  said 


Dinapore 


1 8 1 


about  the  natives.”  In  those  days  of  preposterous 
superiority  the  chaplain  dared  to  believe  that  44  these 
men  are  not  all  fools,  and  that  all  ingenuity  and 
clearness  of  reasoning  are  not  confined  to  England 
and  Europe.  I  seem  to  feel  that  these  descendants 
of  Ham  are  as  dear  to  God  as  the  haughty  sons  of 
Japheth.” 

When  he  entered  Patna  itself  he  speedily  found 
that  44  haughty  son  of  Japheth  ”  though  he  were, 
he  was  met  with  equal  racial  hauteur  on  the  part 
of  a  population  chafing  under  the  new  rule  of 
western  aliens,  and  cherishing  memories  of  the 
days  not  so  long  ago,  when  Mir  Kasim,  to  avenge 
commercial  injustice,  had  a  hundred  and  fifty 
Europeans  done  to  death  in  their  city.1 

Patna  was  in  India  the  home  of  those  most 
formidable  Puritans  of  Islam,  the  fanatical  sect 
of  Wahabis  ;  it  was  a  city  full  of  growling  rumour. 
Martyn  was  greeted  with  scowls. 

The  thought  of  interrupting  a  crowd  of  busy  people 
like  those  at  Patna,  whose  every  day  is  a  market  day, 
with  a  message  about  eternity,  without  command  of 
language,  sufficient  to  explain  and  defend  myself,  and  so 
of  becoming  the  scorn  of  the  rabble  without  doing  them 
good,  was  offensive  to  my  pride.  The  manifest  dis¬ 
affection  of  the  people,  and  the  contempt  with  which 
they  eyed  me  confirmed  my  dread. 

England  appears  almost  a  heaven  upon  earth  because 
there  one  is  not  viewed  as  an  unjust  intruder. 

Altogether  his  new  parish  presented  no  rosy  pros¬ 
pect.  But  Martyn  did  not  ask  for  roses.  He 
found  work  to  his  hand  in  the  hospital  and  the 
incessant  funerals  of  a  station  where  one  regiment 
on  arriving  lost  fifteen  men  in  fourteen  days.  The 

1  The  Patna  massacre,  1762. 


Henry  Martyn 


182 


sick  men  were  sometimes  ribald,  but  at  other  times 
Martyn  “  was  much  comforted  to  hear  that  the 
men  had  great  love  for  him.”  His  barrack  quarters, 
as  the  General  had  warned  him,  became  untenable 
in  the  heat,  and  he  thereupon  moved  to  a  bungalow 
in  the  smaller  cantonment  square,  which  seemed 
to  him  too  sumptuous  for  a  missionary,  but  which 
he  for  ever  filled  with  a  strange  assortment  of 
language  teachers,  scribes,  and  poverty-stricken 
guests.  The  house  was  probably  tenantless  because 
in  the  rains  it  was  flooded  and  cut  off  from  the 
barracks  by  a  stagnant  pond. 

Martyn,  now  master  of  a  house,  set  aside  the 
big  central  room  and  verandas  for  a  church,  re¬ 
taining  only  the  use  of  the  smaller  rooms.1  He  had 
forms  set  out  (though  superior  persons  sent  their 
servants  before  service  with  their  own  chairs  and 
footstools),  and  a  table  behind  which  he  stood. 
He  begged  from  the  General  the  help  of  the  band 
to  lead  hymns  and  chants.  The  men  were  paraded, 
the  station  merchants  drove  up,  the  ladies  were 
handed  in  from  their  palanquins  by  officers,  the 
soldiers’  wives  in  white  dresses  and  mob  caps  came 
across  the  dusty  square  under  painted  umbrellas, 
and  Martyn  at  his  table,  with  the  light  filtering 
through  the  double  green  lattices  behind  him,  saw 
before  him,  as  he  told  David  Brown,  a  larger 
congregation  and  one  in  far  greater  need  of 
instruction  in  the  Christian  faith  than  would 
have  been  his  had  he  stayed  at  the  Calcutta  mission 
church. 

But  he  was  not  content  with  a  flock  that  came 
indeed  to  his  service,  but  took  no  further  notice 

1  See  Harriet  Wainwright,  A  Sermon  Against  Calumny. 


Dmapore 


183 

of  religion.  At  Dinapore  as  everywhere  his  presence 
was  a  touchstone  ;  souls  here  and  there  accepted 
his  standards  and  mounted  his  steep  path.  Martyn 
yearned  over  such  and  wrestled  on  their  behalf. 
A  Major  and  his  wife  who  made  a  marked  change 
of  life  had  to  face  the  music  : 

The  Major  was  telling  me  yesterday,  almost  with 
tears,  of  the  sneers  he  met  with  from  nearly  all  for  his 
religion.  .  .  .  He  longs  to  be  in  England  to  follow 
religion  unmolested. 

I  learnt  from  him  that  on  Sunday  evening  at  the 
General’s  he  had  been  bantered  on  the  late  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  him  with  regard  to  religion.  I  felt 
such  love  to  him  that  I  could  have  laid  down  my  life 
for  him. 

It  was  no  easier  for  the  men.  Martyn  put  his 
house  at  the  disposal  of  the  “  serious  ”  soldiers 
twice  a  week,  and  never  failed  to  meet  the  tiny 
group,  for  whom  sometimes  a  fair  linen  cloth  was 
spread  and  a  Communion  held  in  his  veranda. 
They  were  not  more  than  about  half  a  dozen  hardy 
souls  who  could  gather  at  any  one  time.  “  Six 
soldiers  came  last  night.  To  escape  as  much  as 
possible  the  taunts  of  their  wicked  companions,  they 
go  out  of  their  barracks  in  opposite  directions  to 
come  to  me.” 

For  one  part  of  Marty n’s  flock  in  the  cantonments 
no  pastoral  care  had  ever  yet  been  shown.  With 
each  European  regiment  of  the  East  India  Company 
there  came  a  half-recognized  following  of  Portuguese 
and  Indian  women  of  the  camp.  Military  regula¬ 
tions  forbade  Martyn  to  give  Christian  marriage  to 
these  women  and  the  soldiers.  Yet  many  of  the 
unions  with  them  were  lifelong  and  faithful ;  and 
in  barracks  full  of  nameless  vice  made  on  the  whole 


184 


Henry  Martyn 


for  better  living  among  men  who  were  not,  like 
the  King’s  regiments,  looking  forward  to  a  return 
from  foreign  service  to  their  English  sweethearts. 
Since  marriage  was  against  the  regulations  it  became 
one  of  the  hardest  tests  for  Martyn ’s  “  serious  ” 
soldiers  to  give  their  women  an  allowance  and  cease 
to  live  with  them.  The  camp  women,  nominally 
Roman  Catholic  or  Moslem,  but  virtually  ignorant  of 
all  faiths,  had  become  an  institution  in  cantonment 
life.  For  good  or  evil  they  were  there  and  quite 
unshepherded  and  Martyn  could  not  leave  them 
without  care. 

I  signified  to  the  Colonel  that  I  was  ready  to  minister 
in  the  country  language  to  the  native  women  belonging 
to  his  soldiers  of  the  European  regiment,  which  he 
approved,  but  told  me  it  was  my  business  to  find  them 
an  order  and  not  his.  So  I  issued  my  command  to  the 
sergeant-major  to  give  public  notice  that  there  would 
be  divine  service  in  the  native  language  on  the  morrow. 
The  morrow  came  and  .  .  .  200  women.  Instead  of 
the  lessons  I  began  Matthew.  I  could  not  keep  myself 
from  attempting  to  expound  a  little,  and  but  a  little. 

The  women  come,  I  fear,  rather  because  it  is  the  wish 
of  their  masters.  The  conversion  of  any  of  such 
despised  people  is  never  likely  perhaps  to  be  of  any 
extensive  use  in  regard  to  the  natives  at  large ;  but 
they  are  a  people  committed  to  me  by  God,  and  as  dear 
to  Him  as  others  ;  and  next  in  order  after  the  English, 
they  come  within  the  expanding  circle  of  action. 

“The  expanding  circle  of  action  ” — so  in  a  single 
phrase  he  reveals  his  outlook.  His  first  step  beyond 
the  cantonments  was  the  setting  up  of  four  little 
primary  schools  in  Patna  and  its  neighbourhood. 
The  well-greased  urchins  squatted  more  or  less 
contentedly,  writing  the  Persian  character  in  the 
sand  or  on  wooden  slates  and  singing  out  the  name 


Dinapore 


185 

of  the  letter  as  they  did  so.  “  Thus  they  learn 
both  to  read  and  to  write  at  the  same  time.”  For 
such  scholars  as  mastered  the  art  of  reading  Martyn 
prepared  in  Hindustani  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
and  a  little  book  of  the  Parables  of  Christ  with 
explanations,  his  own  first  effort  at  Hindustani  com¬ 
position,  corrected  again  and  again  with  loving 
and  scrupulous  care  under  the  eye  of  his  several 
teachers. 

I  went  on  to  Patna  to  see  how  matters  stood  with 
respect  to  the  school.  Its  situation  is  highly  favourable, 
near  an  old  gate  now  in  the  midst  of  the  city,  and  where 
three  ways  meet.  .  .  .  The  people  immediately  gathered 
round  me  in  great  numbers.  I  told  them  that  what 
they  understood  by  making  people  Christians  was  not 
my  intention  ;  I  wished  the  children  to  be  taught  to 
fear  God  and  to  become  good  men.  .  .  .  The  General 
observed  to  me  one  morning,  that  that  school  of  mine 
made  a  very  good  appearance  from  the  road  ;  “  but,” 
said  he,  “  you  will  make  no  proselytes.”  If  that  be  all 
the  opposition  he  makes  I  shall  not  much  mind. 

Such  little  schools,  together  with  the  habit  of 
welcoming  Indian  friends  to  their  houses,  earned 
for  Martyn  and  his  friend  Corrie  (now  stationed 
above  him  at  the  rock  fortress  of  Chunar  over¬ 
hanging  the  Ganges)  the  title  of  “  the  black 
chaplains.” 

Martyn  and  Corrie  wrote  to  one  another  once 
a  week,  sending  up  and  down  the  river  accounts 
of  language  difficulties,  refractory  schoolmasters, 
children’s  progress,  or  quaint  ecclesiastical  adven¬ 
tures  in  neglected  communities  where  all  manner 
of  questions  crept  in  about  baptism,  marriage  and 
Christian  burial,  that  had  to  be  solved  on  the  spot 
by  the  isolated  young  chaplains,  in  a  country  where 


Henry  Martyn 


1 86 


there  was  no  bishop,  and  David  Brown  himself, 
whom  Martyn’s  letters  call  “the  patriarch,”  was 
only  in  deacon’s  orders.  Those  unfettered  weekly 
letters  reveal,  as  more  official  documents  could  not, 
the  single-heartedness  of  the  men  who  wrote. 

I  trust  we  shall  .  .  .  keep  our  eyes  fixed  on  the  fiery, 
cloudy  pillar  [wrote  Martyn].  If  you  see  it  move  when 
I  do  not,  you  will  give  me  the  signal,  and  I  will  strike 
my  tent  and  go  forward. 

Second  only  to  Corrie’s  letters  and  occasional 
visits,  as  the  joy  of  Martyn’s  life,  was  a  budget 
that  came  periodically  from  Calcutta.  Buchanan 
with  the  mind  of  an  ecclesiastical  strategist  and 
Brown  with  the  care  of  a  father  for  his  isolated 
juniors,  started  together  a  kind  of  clerical  club 
for  keeping  in  touch  with  such  chaplains  as  cared 
to  study  the  whole  Christian  position  in  India. 
Each  man  was  to  send  a  monthly  report  of 
his  own  task ;  and  other  documents  of  interest 
were  circulated  with  these,  such  as  Buchanan’s 
researches  on  the  ancient  Syrian  Churches  in  the 
South,  or  the  Latin  correspondence  which  Martyn 
set  up  with  the  Roman  Catholic  fathers  of  the 
Propaganda.  The  group  planned  together  to  supple¬ 
ment  the  work  at  Serampore  in  Bible  translation, 
and  collected  books  on  oriental  tongues.  Martyn 
heard  of  the  club — “  The  Associated  Clergy  ”  they 
called  it — with  enthusiasm. 

What  a  gratification  it  would  be  to  me  to  lean  my 
head  across  your  long  table  to  hear  what  you  and  your 
colleagues  are  planning.  But  I  hope  you  will  send  me 
constant  intelligence.  Your  wish  to  hear  from  me  can 
never  equal  my  desire  for  your  letters.  The  Lord  love 
you  and  yours. 


Dinapore 


187 


Among  the  clerical  details  of  the  letters  that  went 
down  to  Aldeen,  messages  creep  in  for  the  children 
of  the  house  that  more  than  any  other  was  home 
to  him.  44  Dear  little  Hannah.”  44  Dear  child  ! 
Give  my  love  to  her.”  44  Tell  James  and  Charles 
that  i  expect  to  find  them  great  scholars 
when  next  I  see  them.”  44  So  you  intend  the 
new  little  one  for  me  ;  I  accept  the  boon  with 
pleasure.” 

Sorely  did  he  need  these  Indian  friendships,  for 
home  letters  were  few  and  distressing.  His  sister 
Laura  died  of  consumption,  and  Sally  though 
happily  married  (so  happily  that  she  did  not  often 
write  to  Henry)  was  also  in  poor  health.  And  at 
last  the  answer  came  from  Lydia.  It  came  to  one 
who  dreamed  at  night  of  her  coming,  who  after  a 
day  44  hard  at  Arabic  Grammar  ”  sat  at  his  door 
looking  across  the  dusty  barrack  square  with  his 
heart  at  St  Hilary  and  Marazion,  and  who 
44  hastened  on  the  alterations  ”  in  his  comfortless 
house  and  garden  to  make  it  fit  for  her. 

October  24,  1807.  An  unhappy  day  ;  received  at  last 
a  letter  from  Lydia,  in  which  she  refuses  to  come  because 
her  mother  will  not  consent  to  it. 

He  began  a  letter  to  her  at  once  : 

My  Dear  Lydia, — 

Though  my  heart  is  bursting  with  grief  and  disappoint¬ 
ment,  i  write  not  to  blame  you.  ...  You  condemn 
yourself  for  having  given  me,  though  unintentionally, 
encouragement  to  believe  that  my  attachment  was 
returned.  Perhaps  you  have.  I  have  read  your  former 
letters  with  feelings  less  sanguine  since  the  receipt  of 
the  last,  and  am  still  not  surprised  at  the  interpretation 
I  put  upon  them.  .  .  . 


Henry  Martyn 


1 88 


You  do  not  assign  among  your  reasons  for  refusal  a 
want  of  regard  to  me.  .  .  .  On  the  contrary  you  say 
that  “present  circumstances  seem  to  you  to  forbid  my 
indulging  expectations.”  .  .  .  Let  me  say  I  must  be 
contented  to  wait  till  you  feel  that  the  way  is  clear.  .  .  . 
If  there  were  no  reason  for  your  coming  here,  and  the 
contest  were  only  between  Mrs  Grenfell  and  me,  that  is 
between  her  happiness  and  mine,  I  would  urge  nothing 
further,  but  resign  you  to  her.  But  I  have  considered 
that  there  are  many  things  that  might  reconcile  her  to 
a  separation  from  you  (if  indeed  a  separation  is  necessary, 
for  if  she  would  come  along  with  you,  I  should  rejoice 
the  more).  First  she  does  not  depend  on  you  alone  for 
the  comfort  of  her  declining  years.  She  is  surrounded 
by  friends.  She  has  a  greater  number  of  sons  and 
daughters  honourably  established  in  the  world  than  falls 
to  the  lot  of  most  parents — all  of  whom  would  be  happy 
in  having  her  amongst  them.  Again,  if  a  person 
worthy  of  your  hand,  and  settled  in  England,  were 
to  offer  himself,  Mrs  Grenfell  would  not  have  in¬ 
superable  objections  though  it  did  deprive  her  of  her 
daughter.  .  .  . 

But  the  more  I  write  and  the  more  I  think  of  you,  the 
more  my  affection  warms,  and  I  should  feel  it  difficult 
to  keep  my  pen  from  expressions  that  might  not  be 
acceptable  to  you. 

Farewell  !  dearest,  most  beloved  Lydia,  remember 
your  faithful  and  ever  affectionate 

H.  Martyn. 


To  David  Brown  : 

It  is  as  I  feared.  She  refuses  to  come  because  her 
mother  will  not  give  her  consent.  Sir,  you  must  not 
wonder  at  my  pale  looks  when  I  receive  so  many  hard 
blows  on  my  heart.  ...  The  queen’s  ware  on  its  way 
out  to  me  can  be  sold  at  an  outcry  or  sent  to  Corrie.  I 
do  not  want  queen’s  ware  or  anything  else  now. 

Was  Mrs  Grenfell  then  so  obdurate  a  parent  ? 
Or  was  Lydia  only  half  in  love  with  the  man  and 


Dinapore 


189 


half  with  the  romance  of  being  loved  by  him  ? 
A  niece  of  Lydia  tells  us  that  the  maternal  opposition 
was  real.  44  The  connexion  with  the  Martyns  was 
distasteful  ”  to  Mrs  Grenfell  who  did  not  feel  the 
families  equally  matched.  And  she  adds,  44 1  should 
say  that  my  [great]  aunt’s  ideas  of  paternal  authority, 
up  to  middle  life  even,  were  extreme,  as  I  well 
remember  her  expressing  them.” 

An  entry  in  Lydia’s  diary  for  May  20,  1806,  is 
revealing  : 

44  My  chief  concern  now  is  lest  I  should  have 
given  too  much  reason  for  my  dear  friend’s  hoping 
I  might  yet  be  prevailed  on  to  attend  to  his  request, 
and  I  feel  the  restraint  stronger  than  ever,  that 
having  before  promised,  I  am  not  free  to  marry. 
I  paint  the  scene  of  his  return,  and  whichever  way 
I  take,  nothing  but  misery  and  guilt  seems  to 
await  me.  .  .  .  Thou  knowest  these  consequences 
of  my  regard  for  thy  dear  saint  were  not  intended 
by  me,  and  that  when  first  I  regarded  him  other¬ 
wise  than  as  a  Christian  brother,  I  believed  myself 
free  to  do  so,  imagining  him  I  first  loved  united  to 
another  !  ” 

Charles  Simeon,  when  he  knew  that  Martyn’s 
proposal  had  been  sent  home,  took  horse  and  rode 
into  Cornwall,  the  erect  precise  old  bachelor,  a 
most  quaint  ambassador  of  love.  But  Lydia  had 
already  written  her  refusal  when  Simeon  came. 
44  May  the  Lord  comfort  me  by  him  ”  her  diary 
said  as  she  prepared  to  meet  him.  She  was  edified 
by  seeing  44  how  a  Christian  lives.”  But  the  hope 
of  his  journey  had  not  been  her  comfort  so  much 
as  Henry  Martyn’s,  and  he  came  away  depressed. 
Lydia  admitted  that  she  had  44  entered  into  a 


1 90 


Henry  Martyn 


correspondence  with  Henry  Martyn  and  expressed 
too  freely  her  regard,”  but  she  once  more  paraded 
her  scruple  about  Mr  John.  He  was  not  yet  married 
and  she  was  not  free. 

Simeon  brushed  it  away  and  told  her  no  objection 
was  insuperable  except  her  mother’s  prohibition, 
and  that  he  was  not  disposed  to  regard  as  ever¬ 
lasting. 

But  he  rode  back  depressed  to  Cambridge  and 
sent  out  to  India  a  letter  which  Martyn  also  found 
depressing ;  while  Lydia,  with  her  gift  for  pro¬ 
longing  emotional  situations,  wrote  another  letter 
“  to  bid  him  a  last  farewell.” 

It  was  well  for  Martyn  that  the  greatest  task  of 
his  life  had  just  begun  to  fill  his  thoughts.  The 
4 4  Associated  Clergy  ”  in  their  desire  for  Bible 
translation  had  sent  to  him  to  ask  if  he  would 
make  a  New  Testament  in  Hindustani,  the  existing 
one  being  44  unintelligible  to  the  vulgar,”  and  also 
a  satisfactory  version  in  Persian,  since  neither 
that  of  Mr  Colebrook,  the  great  Sanskrit  scholar, 
nor  of  the  Serampore  missionaries,  had  quite  the 
idiomatic  freedom  that  was  needed.  Already 
Martyn’s  uncomfortable  church-like  house  was  filled 
with  strangely  assorted  guests  who  hung  about  him, 
now  a  learned  Moslem  from  Patna,  now  a  Roman 
Catholic  father  from  the  Propaganda,  now  a  Jew 
from  Babylon,  now  an  Armenian  from  Jerusalem 
(44  a  very  agreeable  Armenian  padre  in  a  black 
little  cassock  exactly  such  as  we  wear,  or  ought 
to  wear.  I  feel  almost  ashamed  of  my  secular 
appearance  before  these  very  venerable  and  ap¬ 
propriate  figures  ”),  now  a  Prussian  sergeant  anxious 
about  his  soul.  The  strangest  of  them  all  was  now 


Dinapore 


191 

to  be  added  to  the  establishment — Sabat,  as  he 
called  him,  a  wild  Arab  with  a  wild  history  whom 
Mr  Brown  was  despatching  to  be  his  assistant  in 
translation  work.  The  work  was  to  be  his  joy  and 
delight  and  Sabat  an  engrossing  care,  so  that  the 
Martyn  of  these  days,  his  whole  being  concentrated 
on  one  end,  undistracted  by  hope  of  human  solace, 
moves  in  a  strange  calm,  finding  rest  in  toil,  like 
the  sleep  of  a  spinning  top. 

“  He  wishes,  if  it  please  God,”  wrote  Corrie  on 
a  visit  in  September,  1808,  “to  be  spared  on  account 
of  the  translations,  but  with  great  earnestness  he 
said,  ‘  I  wish  to  have  my  whole  soul  swallowed  up 
in  the  will  of  God.’  ”  1 

And  now  at  last  a  “  budgerow  ”  was  coming  up 
the  Ganges  bringing  one  who  saw  in  vivid  colours 
and  knew  how  to  write  down  what  she  saw. 

Mrs  Sherwood,  wife  of  the  paymaster  of  the 
King’s  53rd,  had  been  a  story-writer  from  her 
childhood  and  went  about  the  world  with  a  seeing 
eye  and  a  warm,  compassionate  heart.  Her  Fair- 
child  Family  was  to  make  her  a  nursery  classic, 
but  to  her  gossiping  autobiography  the  Church 
owes  all  its  most  vivid  pictures  of  Henry  Martyn 
in  India. 

The  chaplain  at  their  last  station,  one  of  the 
“  Associated  Clergy,”  had  given  Mr  Sherwood  a 
note  for  Martyn  which  he  hurried  to  present  on 
arrival,  leaving  his  wife  in  the  boat. 

Mr  Martyn  received  Mr  Sherwood  not  as  a  stranger 
but  as  a  brother.  ...  As  the  sun  was  already  low,  he 
must  needs  walk  back  with  him  to  see  me.  I  perfectly 
remember  the  figure  of  that  simple-hearted  and  holy 

1  Memoir 8  of  Daniel  Corrie ,  p.  118. 


192 


Henry  Martyn 


young  man,  when  he  entered  our  budgerow.  He  was 
dressed  in  white,  and  looked  very  pale,  which  however 
was  nothing  singular  in  India  ;  his  hair,  a  light  brown, 
was  raised  from  his  forehead  which  was  a  remarkably 
fine  one.  His  features  were  not  regular,  but  the  ex¬ 
pression  was  so  luminous,  so  intellectual,  so  affectionate, 
so  beaming  with  Divine  charity,  that  no  one  could  have 
looked  at  his  features  and  thought  of  their  shape  or  form, 
— the  out-beaming  of  his  soul  would  absorb  the  attention 
of  every  observer.  There  was  a  very  decided  air,  too, 
of  the  gentleman  about  Mr  Martyn,  and  a  perfection  of 
manners  which,  from  his  extreme  attention  to  all  minute 
civilities,  might  seem  almost  inconsistent  with  the 
general  bent  of  his  thoughts  to  the  most  serious  subjects. 
He  was  as  remarkable  for  ease  as  for  cheerfulness,  and 
in  these  particulars  his  Journal  does  not  give  a  graphic 
account  of  this  blessed  child  of  God.  .  .  . 

Mr  Martyn  invited  us  to  visit  him  at  his  quarters  at 
Dinapore,  and  we  agreed  to  accept  his  invitation  the 
next  day.  Mr  Martyn’s  house  was  destitute  of  every 
comfort,  though  he  had  multitudes  of  people  about  him. 
I  had  been  troubled  with  a  pain  in  my  face,  and  there 
was  not  such  a  thing  as  a  pillow  in  the  house.  I  could 
not  find  anything  to  lay  my  head  on  at  night  but  a 
bolster,  stuffed  as  hard  as  a  pin-cushion.  We  had  not, 
as  is  normal  in  India,  brought  our  own  bedding  from  the 
boats.  Our  kind  friend  had  given  us  his  own  room  ; 
but  I  could  get  no  rest.  After  breakfast  Mr  Martyn 
had  family  prayers,  which  he  commenced  by  singing  a 
hymn.  He  had  a  rich,  deep  voice,  and  a  fine  taste  for 
vocal  music.  After  singing  he  read  a  chapter,  explained 
parts  of  it  and  prayed  extempore.  Afterwards  he 
withdrew  to  his  studies.  The  conversion  of  the  natives 
and  the  building  up  of  the  Kingdom  of  Christ  were  the 
great  objects  for  which  alone  that  child  of  God  seemed 
to  exist.  It  was  chiefly  while  walking  with  him  on  the 
Plain,  on  the  Saturday  and  Sunday  evenings,  that  he 
opened  his  heart  to  us. 

This  however  I  can  never  forget,  that  Henry  Martyn 
was  one  of  the  very  few  persons  whom  I  have  ever  met 
who  appeared  never  to  be  drawn  away  from  one  leading 
and  prevailing  object  of  interest.  He  did  not  appear 


Dinapore 


193 


like  one  who  felt  the  necessity  of  contending  with  the 
world  and  denying  himself  its  delights.1 

t 

She  little  guessed  the  struggles  that  had  been 
the  price  of  serenity  for  the  man  whom  she 
described  as  “  walking  in  this  turbulent  world  with 
peace  in  his  mind  and  charity  in  his  heart.” 


1  Life  of  Mrs  Sherwood ,  chiefly  autobiographical,  1864,  p.  340,  eto. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  LINGUIST 

There  is  a  book  printed  at  the  Hirkara  Press,  called  Celtic 
derivatives — this  I  want ;  also  grammars  and  dictionaries  of  all 
the  languages  of  the  earth.  I  have  one  or  both  in  Latin,  Greek, 
French,  Italian,  Portuguese,  Dutch,  Hebrew,  Rabbinical  Hebrew, 
Chaldee,  Syriac,  Ethiopic,  Samaritan,  Arabic,  Persian,  Sanscrit, 
Bengalee,  Hindoostanee. — Henry  Martyn  to  David  Brown, 
October  1809. 

Christianity  has  been,  as  it  were,  a  great  searchlight  flung  across 
the  expanse  of  the  religions  ;  and  in  its  blaze  all  the  coarse,  unclean 
and  superstitious  elements  of  the  old  faiths  stood  out,  quite  early, 
in  painful  vividness.  India  shuddered.  .  .  .  But  the  same  light 
which  exposed  all  the  grossness  gradually  enabled  men  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  the  nobler  and  more  spiritual  elements  in  the  religions. — 
J.  N.  Farquhar,  Modern  Religious  Movements  in  India. 

During  Martyn’s  months  in  Calcutta  he  had  missed 
meeting  one  of  her  most  impressive  personalities, 
Claudius  Buchanan,  the  Vice-Provost  of  Fort 
William  College. 

After  penniless  wanderings  with  a  violin  this 
sturdy  and  ambitious  person  had  found  his  religion 
and  his  education  among  the  evangelicals,  who 
sent  him  to  Cambridge.  Amongst  these  men  who 
laid  all  their  stress  on  the  religion  of  the  heart, 
Buchanan  bore  a  nature  fitted  for  the  career  of 
a  mediaeval  prince-bishop.  At  home  he  might 
have  been  a  notable  prelate  with  the  ear  of  states¬ 
men,  or,  if  the  reproach  of  his  religious  school 
had  debarred  him  from  preferment,  a  redoubtable 

194 


The  Linguist 


195 


party  polemic,  an  honest  dealer  of  shrewd  and 
smashing  blows.  In  India,  where  he  became 
Wellesley’s  trusted  chaplain,  the  vast  sweep  of  the 
problems  of  a  continent  delighted  him,  but  the 
position  of  the  handful  of  chaplains  as  an  un¬ 
considered  appendage  of  the  East  India  Company 
caused  him  grave  distress. 

His  most  placid  period  was  during  the  few  years 
that  followed  the  opening  of  the  College  of  Fort 
William,  when  under  Wellesley’s  approving  eye, 
he  bent  his  great  powers  to  the  working  out  of  its 
ambitious  curriculum,  and  returned  in  the  evening 
to  a  little  wife  for  whom  his  rather  condescending 
courtship  had  meant  entrance  into  a  wider  world 
both  of  spirit  and  of  intellect. 

“It  is  a  new  Gospel  to  me,”  wrote  the  bride 
after  listening  to  his  instructions  (and  Buchanan 
was  a  luminous  and  inspiring  teacher),  “  and  I 
seem  to  live  in  a  new  world,  differing  far  more  from 
my  old  world  than  India  differs  from  England.” 
She  could  not  admire  him  enough,  and  he  approved 
of  her.  “Mrs  Buchanan  is  not  yet  nineteen,”  he 
wrote ;  “  she  has  had  a  very  proper  education 
for  my  wife.  She  has  docility  of  disposition,  sweet¬ 
ness  of  temper,  and  a  strong  passion  for  retired 
life.”  1  Under  “  my  Mary’s  care  ”  Claudius 
Buchanan  spent  some  contented  years,  his  days 
busy  with  college  organization,  his  leisure  occupied 
with  schemes  for  the  Church  in  India.  He  gave 
munificently  from  his  salary  to  provide  prizes  in 
home  universities  and  schools  for  odes  or  essays 
on  subjects  connected  with  Christianity  in  the 
East.  To  his  Mary  it  was  all  most  wonderful. 

1  Pearson,  Memoirs  of  Claudius  Buchanan ,  p.  195. 


196 


Henry  Martyn 


But  she  died,  and  there  passed  from  her  rugged 
husband’s  life  a  touch  of  mellowing  softness.  He 
was  in  danger  of  hardening  into  the  ecclesiastical 
strategist.  He  found,  he  tells  us,  “  some  con¬ 
solation  in  writing  a  few  lines  to  her  memory  in 
the  Hebrew,  Syriac,  Greek  and  Latin  languages 
which  I  inscribed  on  a  leaf  of  her  own  Bible.” 

That  done  he  turned  to  survey  India  and  her 
needs.  In  1805  he  published  his  Memoir  of  the 
Expediency  of  an  Ecclesiastical  Establishment  in 
British  India.  After  a  clear  and  succinct  statement 
of  existing  conditions  he  suggested  (as  Grant  and 
Brown  had  suggested  before  him)  that  India  stood 
in  dire  need  of  an  extension  of  “  our  happy  establish¬ 
ment.”  If  to-day  lovers  of  India  are  out  of  love 
with  the  yoking  of  Church  and  state,  it  must  at 
least  be-  acknowledged  that  Buchanan’s  proposals 
were  daring  in  days  when  there  were  but  three 
Anglican  Church  buildings  in  India,  one  in  each 
presidency.1 

“  An  archbishop  is  wanted  for  India,”  he  wrote, 
“  a  sacred  and  exalted  character,  surrounded  by 
his  bishops,  of  ample  revenue  and  extensive  sway.” 

The  sentence  gives  a  picture  of  his  mind, 
courageous,  political,  with  a  curious  trust  in 
externals. 

As  Martyn  sailed  up  the  Hooghly  Buchanan  had 
passed  down  it,  borne  southwards  on  a  survey 
whose  wide  sweep  delighted  his  heart.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  enquire  into  the  state  of  the  Christian 
Church  in  South  India  and  describe,  in  his  Christian 
Researches  in  India ,  the  ancient  and  then  little 

1  Three  churches  served  by  official  chaplains  of  the  Company.  The 
Old  Mission  Church  in  Calcutta  was  an  unofficial  fourth. 


The  Linguist 


197 


known  Syrian  Church  in  Travancore.1  When  he 
returned  his  chests  were  stuffed  with  manuscripts 
and  his  head  seething  with  schemes  for  Bible  trans¬ 
lation.  He  inspired  David  Brown,  and  together 
they  started  the  club  known  as  44  The  Associated 
Clergy  ”  and  inspired  their  brethren.  Martyn  in 
Dinapore  gave  his  heartfelt  admiration  to  the  sweep 
of  Dr  Buchanan’s  intellect  and  responded  grate¬ 
fully  to  the  vigour  of  his  leadership. 

I  feel  bound  to  bless  our  God  for  the  arrival  of  Dr 
Buchanan.  To  him  I  beg  my  kindest  love,  congratu¬ 
lations  on  his  personal  preservation  and  thanks  in  the 
name  of  the  whole  church  for  those  MSS.  he  has  brought 
away.  My  expectation  dwells  on  the  lids  of  those 
chests ;  who  knows  how  important  the  acquisition  of 
them  may  be  ? 

It  is  a  thought  that  has  lately  occurred  to  me  that  if 
Dr  Buchanan  is  disposed  to  add  another  to  his  acts  of 
munificence,  he  might  revive  Arabic  and  Oriental 
literature  in  Cambridge  by  establishing  an  annual  prize 
there — Arabic  and  Persian  Bibles  will  soon  have  to 
undergo  a  rapid  succession  of  editions  in  England,  and 
it  is  therefore  desirable  that  many  persons  should  be 
at  hand  qualified  to  superintend  the  printing  of  them. 

Read  Dr  Buchanan’s  correspondence  with  inde¬ 
scribable  joy.  It  will  read  like  a  romance  in  England 
and  the  people  of  God  will  be  in  an  extasy.  But  while 
so  many  things  are  calling  us  to  look  abroad  into  the 
earth,  may  the  people  of  God  mind  their  own  hearts. 

Letters  now  began  to  come  up  the  river  to 
Dinapore  telling  Martyn  that  Brown  and  Buchanan 
had  comprehensive  schemes  for  44  a  British  Pro¬ 
paganda  for  uniting  all  the  talents  and  industry 
in  India.”  He  could  not  at  first  get  from  his  leaders 

1  So  late  as  1831  a  clergyman  in  Cornwall  could  write  that  “  the 
Syrian  Christians  and  their  good  Bishop  are  said  to  have  no  existence 
but  in  Buchanan’s  imagination.” 


198 


Henry  Martyn 


all  the  details  of  so  grand  a  scheme,  but  they  told 

him  that  his  part  was  to  study  Hindustani,  Persian 

and  Arabic.  He  obeyed. 

•/ 

Since  your  first  letter,  [he  replied  to  David  Brown] 
commanding  me  to  change  my  studies,  the  dust  has 
been  collecting  on  Mr  Carey’s  great  grammar,  [Carey’s 
Sanskrit  grammar  was  a  work  of  one  thousand  pages] 
and  the  time  formerly  devoted  to  Sanscrit  is  given  to 
Persian  and  Hebrew.  I  am  too  shallow  in  both  of 
these  to  touch  the  Arabic  yet.  In  Hindoostanee  trans¬ 
lations  I  begin  to  feel  my  ground,  and  can  go  on  much 
faster  than  one  moonshee  can  follow.  I  have  some 
thoughts  of  engaging  another.  ...  You  have  left  me 
still  in  the  dark  respecting  the  new  Propaganda,  but  I 
see  enough  to  rejoice  in  the  zeal  that  animates  you  all ; 
and  in  time  I  hope  to  catch  the  flame,  and  with  you  to 
become  a  living  sacrifice. 

You  can  command  me  in  any  service  which  you  can 
prove  to  be  most  favourable  to  the  interests  of  Zion. 

It  was  in  June  1807  that  the  definite  proposal 
came  to  him  from  David  Brown  that  he  should 
translate  the  New  Testament  into  Hindustani  (or 
Urdu)  and  supervise  translations  into  Persian  and 
Arabic,  with  the  help  of  two  men  whom  they  would 
send  to  him  as  specialists  in  these  languages,  Mirza 
Muhammad  Fitrat  of  Benares  and  Nathaniel  Sabat, 
an  Arab  educated  at  Baghdad. 

David  Brown  enclosed  a  letter  of  Claudius 
Buchanan,  which  with  Martyn’s  comment  on  it 
throws  a  curious  sidelight  on  two  characters  : 

In  a  note  of  Dr  Buchanan’s  to  Mr  Brown,  which  he 
sent  me  is  this  :  “  We  shall  give  to  Martyn  Mirza  and 
Sabat,  and  announce  to  the  world  three  versions  of 
Scripture  in  Arabic,  Persian  and  Hindoostanee,  and  a 
threefold  cord  is  not  easily  broken.”  This  plan  of 
placing  the  two  with  me  I  accord  to,  as  it  seems  to  be 


The  Linguist 


199 


the  will  of  God  ;  but  annunciations  I  abhor,  except  the 
annunciation  of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles. 

So  with  diffidence,  Martyn  accepted  the  task, 
hardly  realizing  at  first  that  it  might  involve  a 
situation  of  some  little  delicacy  with  his  friends 
the  Baptist  missionaries  at  Serampore.  Those  men 
of  heroic  industry  had  taken  for  their  province 
the  translation  and  printing  of  the  Scriptures  in 
all  the  great  tongues  of  India,  Burma  and 
China.  The  vastness  of  the  task  undertaken  at 
Serampore  can  only  be  seen  when  it  is  realized 
that  most  of  the  missionaries  there  were  self- 
taught  in  Greek  and  Hebrew  ;  some  of  them  only 
learning  those  tongues  in  India  for  the  sake  of  the 
translations. 

What  men  so  handicapped  produced  is  almost 
miraculous.  In  the  face  of  their  actual  achievements 
anything  seemed  possible,  and  it  was  hard  for  therq 
to  realize  all  that  was  involved  in  a  critical  mastery 
of  Greek  or  Hebrew,  or  the  tentative  nature  of  all 
first  translations  made  by  foreigners. 

The  friendship  between  the  Baptist  missionaries 
and  the  Anglican  chaplains  was  real.  “  I  believe 
you  will  not  find  many  in  England  who  have  less 
bigotry  and  more  friendship,” 1  wrote  Carey  of 
David  Brown  and  Claudius  Buchanan.  None  the 
less  there  was  a  little  gallantly  suppressed  sore 
feeling  in  Serampore  when  the  chaplains,  in  starting 
a  Calcutta  branch  of  the  new  Bible  Society,  made 
it  clear  that  not  all  of  the  translations  of  the  Society 
would  of  necessity  be  made  at  Serampore.  There 
was  a  little  tendency  to  resent  the  fact  that  official 
chaplains  had  the  ear  of  the  government  while  the 
1  E.  Carey,  Memoir  of  William  Cany,  p.  458. 


200 


Henry  Martyn 


Serampore  mission  was  there  on  sufferance,  and  a 
little  natural  irritation  at  the  rather  lordly  tone 
of  Claudius  Buchanan’s  announcements. 

But  Martyn  in  his  distant  station,  full  of  ap¬ 
preciative  love  for  the  men  of  Serampore,  and  of 
warm  friendship  for  his  “  brother  ”  Marshman, 
was  unconscious  of  the  slightly  strained  feelings 
for  the  most  part  so  gallantly  controlled.  He 
wrote  quite  freely  and  critically,  as  he  would  have 
written  of  the  work  of  any  Cambridge  friend,  about 
the  quality  of  their  Persian  or  Hindustani  versions  ; 
and  when  his  own  translations  were  made,  he  in 
his  turn  showed  the  scholar’s  eagerness  for  all  the 
criticism  that  his  friends  could  give. 

Marshman  sent  me,  you  know,  some  translations. 
The  general  style  of  the  Hinduwee  is  just  adapted  to 
the  most  general  use — it  will  be  understood  by  millions  ; 
but  it  ought  to  be  done  with  more  care.  Many  im¬ 
portant  sentences  are  wholly  lost,  from  faults  in  the 
order  or  other  small  mistakes.  The  errors  of  the  press 
are  also  very  considerable.  Remind  them  that  the 
more  haste  the  less  speed. 

Had  Martvn  been  in  Calcutta  there  would  have 
* 

been  no  misunderstanding.  As  it  was  he  learnt 
with  something  of  a  shock  that  his  Serampore 
friends  were  chafed  a  little  by  Dr  Buchanan’s 
entrusting  to  so  young  a  “  Daniel  come  to  judg¬ 
ment  ”  work  which  they  had  expected  to  see 
done  in  Serampore.  “  Most  cordially  do  I  wish 
to  remain  in  the  background  to  the  end  of  life  ” 
he  protested,  and  it  was  true.  But  it  was  too  late 
to  draw  back  from  the  great  enterprise  on  which 
he  was  now  launched,  and  for  which  his  standard 
was  the  most  exacting. 


The  Linguist 


201 


“  Perspicuity  is  not  the  only  requisite,”  he  wrote  ; 
“  a  certain  portion  of  grace  is  desirable  and  dignity 
indispensable.  The  Mahometans  are  more  affected 
with  sound  than  even  the  Greeks.” 

That  a  man  of  Martyn’s  critical  power  should, 
after  so  few  years  in  the  country,  pass  with  calm 
assurance  his  judgment  upon  the  translations  of 
others,  and  himself  venture  upon  work  for  which 
he  had  so  high  a  standard  is  in  any  case  remarkable. 
It  is  seen  to  be  still  more  so  when  the  difficulties 
of  Hindustani  study  in  Martyn’s  day  are  taken 
into  account. 

He  found  the  language  neglected  of  both  eastern 
and  western  scholars,  and  on  the  whole  despised 
by  men  of  letters.  A  certain  number  of  small 
phrase  books,  not  without  their  modern  counter¬ 
parts,  had  been  published  to  help  civilians  to  talk 
to  their  servants.  But  Gilchrist  and  Colebrooke, 
the  chief  English  representatives  among  the  very 
few  students  who  had  done  more  serious  work 
on  Hindustani,  poured  candid  scorn  upon  these 
works  :  “  Hadley’s  insignificant  catch-penny  publi¬ 
cation,  a  mere  Tom  Thumb,”  wrote  Gilchrist,  whose 
Grammar  and  Dictionary  were  standard  books, 
and  who  with  some  complacency  christened  works 
of  his  own  by  such  names  as  The  Anti-jargonist  or 
The  Hindee- Roman  Orthoepigraphical  Ultimatum. 

Martyn  found  then  a  great  living  language,  the 
tongue  of  sixty  millions,  a  tongue  of  hybrid  origin, 
and  not  yet  standardized  by  any  universal  work 
of  literature.1  He  was  making  it  more  and  more 

1  Gilchrist  only  knew  the  names  of  thirty  writers  in  Hindi ;  but  by 
1839  Garcin  de  Tassy  had  found  the  names  of  750,  including  some 
twelfth  century  chroniclers  in  verse  and  some  seventeenth  century 


202 


Henry  Martyn 


his  own  as  Carey  had  made  Bengali,  and  learning 
it  always  with  reference  to  life,  picking  out  with  his 
pundit  the  most  used  words  in  the  vocabulary,  or 
fetching  in  a  story-teller  from  the  bazaar  to  be  his 
teacher.  This  language,  as  yet  a  tongue  of  inter¬ 
course  rather  than  of  books,  he  by  a  prophetic 
instinct  seized  on  as  a  great  vehicle  for  religious 
truth.  Time  has  proved  him  right. 

De  meme  qu’en  Europe  les  reformateurs  Chretiens 
ont  adopte  les  langues  vivantes  pour  tout  ce  qui  a 
rapport  au  culte  et  a  l’instruction  religieuse  ;  ainsi  dans 
l’lnde,  les  chefs  des  sectes  modernes  hindoues  et  mussul- 
manes  se  sont  servis  generalement  de  F  hindoustani 
pour  propager  leur  doctrines.  .  .  .  Non  seulement  ils 
ont  ecrit  leurs  ouvrages  en  hindoustani,  mais  les  prieres 
que  recitent  leurs  sectateurs,  les  hymnes  qu’ils  chantent, 
sont  en  cet  idiome.* 1 

All  Martyn ’s  critical  skill  went  into  his  translation. 
He  refused  to  be  hurried. 

You  chide  me  for  not  trusting  my  Hindoostanee  to 
the  press.  I  congratulate  myself.  Last  week  we  began 
the  correction  of  it :  present — a  Seid  of  Delhi,  a  Poet 
of  Lucknow,  three  or  four  literati  of  Patna,  and  Babir 
Ali  in  the  chair.  Sabat  and  myself  assessors.  After 
four  days’  hard  labour,  five  hours  each  day,  we  reached 
to  the  end  of  the  second  chapter,  so  when  you  will  have 
a  gospel  I  do  not  know. 

When  even  his  scrupulous  taste  was  satisfied 
that  the  work  might  be  sent  to  the  printer,  its 
publication  was  delayed  by  a  fire  at  Serampore. 


biographies  of  Hindu  saints  ;  but  in  pure  literature  the  great  mass 
of  work  was  translation  from  Persian,  Sanskrit  or  Arabic  rather  than 
original  writing. 

1  Garcin  de  Tassy,  Preface  de  L'Histoire  de  la  LitUrature  Hindoui 
et  Hindoustani. 


The  Linguist 


203 


And  before  the  book  had  come  into  circulation 
he  had  passed  from  India  and  the  world.  But  he 
left  it  as  a  legacy  of  price.  His  patient  consulta¬ 
tions  with  Indian  scholars  had  prepared  for  it  a 
welcome.  It  was  even  set  as  a  text  -  book  in 
Mohammedan  schools  in  Agra.  Martyn  himself 
was  too  scholarly  to  hope  that  his  work  was  final. 
64 1  have  too  little  faith  in  the  instruments  to 
believe  that  the  first  edition  will  be  excellent,” 
he  told  David  Brown.  Yet  fifty  years  lateT  it 
was  written  of  Martyn ’s  work :  44  All  subsequent 
translations  have,  as  a  matter  of  course,  proceeded 
upon  it  as  a  work  of  excellent  skill  and  learning 
and  rigid  fidelity.”  1  So  he  played  his  part  in 
introducing  the  44  Great  Intruder  ”  whose  presence 
has  meant  so  much  of  upheaval  and  stir  in  the 
spirit  and  brain  of  India. 

Hour  after  hour  as  the  work  proceeded  Henry 
Martyn  sat  in  close  daily  intercourse  with  Moham¬ 
medan  scholars,  and  he  learned  to  know  as  few 
men  know  the  Moslem  outlook  upon  life  and  God. 
44 1  read  everything  I  can  pick  up  about  the 
Mohammedans,”  one  of  his  letters  said.  But  it 
was  in  long,  eager  conversations  when  dictionaries 
and  reed  pens  were  thrust  aside  in  the  interest  of 
the  moment,  that  he  gained  that  astonishing 
mastery  of  Moslem  ways  of  thought  which  won 
the  respect  of  the  doctors  of  Shiraz. 

The  conversations,  often  lasting  late  into  the 
night,  were  startling  to  both  parties.  Henry 
Martyn  never  assumed  the  superior  attitude  of 
the  man  who  cannot  be  ruffled.  It  was  well  seen 

1  Rev.  R.  C.  Mather,  LL.D.,  Monograph  on  Hindustani  Torsions  of 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments. 


204 


Henry  Martyn 


that  he  cared  with  his  whole  soul  for  the  matters 
he  talked  about  and  the  men  he  talked  with.  “  My 
tongue  is  parched,”  he  wrote,  “  and  my  hand 
trembles  from  the  violent  onsets  I  have  had  this 
day  with  moonshee  and  pundit.” 

The  Journal  is  full  of  Martyn’s  notes  of  con¬ 
versations.  For  us  they  have  significance  as  the 
first  meeting  after  centuries  (Martyn’s  immediate 
predecessor  as  a  Christian  apologist  to  Moslem 
India  was  a  Portuguese  Jesuit  named  Hieronymo 
Xavier,  confessor  of  Christ  at  the  court  of  the 
great  Akbar)  of  two  gigantic  spiritual  forces  all 
unguarded  and  unaware,  coming  together  with  a 
first  rude  clash,  unsoftened  by  intercourse  and 
interaction  of  thought. 

On  the  text  “  the  time  cometh,  that  he  that  killeth 
you  shall  think  he  doeth  God  service,”  he  allowed  and 
declared  the  lawfulness  of  putting  infidels  to  death, 
and  the  certainty  of  salvation  to  believers  dying  in  battle 
with  infidels  ;  and  that  it  was  no  more  strange  than  for 
the  magistrate  to  have  power  to  put  an  offender  to 
death. 

He  said  that  prayer  was  not  a  duty  among  the 
Mahometans,  that  reading  the  numaz  was  merely  the 
praising  of  God,  and  that  when  a  servant  after  doing 
his  master’s  service  well,  thought  it  a  favourable 
opportunity  for  asking  a  favour,  so  the  Moslem  after 
doing  his  duty  might  ask  of  God  riches  or  a  son,  or,  if 
he  liked,  for  patience  in  affliction.  I  have  never  felt 
so  excited  as  by  this  dispute.  It  followed  me  all  night 
in  my  dreams. 

In  the  evening  had  long  disputes  with  moonshee  on 
the  enjoyments  of  heaven,  but  I  felt  bitter  mortification 
at  not  having  command  of  language.  However  I  was 
enabled  to  tell  the  moonshee  one  thing  which  rather 
confused  him,  namely,  that  my  chief  delight  even  now 
in  the  world  was  the  enjoyment  of  God’s  presence. 


205 


The  Linguist 


He  said  with  dreadful  bitterness  and  contempt  that 
after  the  present  generation  should  pass  away,  a  set  of 
fools  would  perhaps  be  born,  such  as  the  Gospel  required. 

Mirza  said  with  great  earnestness,  “  Sir,  why  won’t 
you  try  to  save  me  ?  ”  “  Save  you  ?  ”  said  I,  “  I  would 

lay  down  my  life  to  save  your  soul :  what  can  I  do  ?  ” 
He  wished  me  to  go  to  Phoolwari,  the  Mussulman  college, 
and  there  examine  the  subject  with  the  most  learned 
of  their  doctors.  I  told  him  I  had  no  objection. 

So  in  long  intimate  talk  and  in  the  heat  of 
argument  with  men  who,  in  spite  of  themselves, 
grew  to  love  him  and  if  they  sometimes  left  him 
in  a  passion  returned  again  to  work  with  him, 
Martyn  began  to  learn  the  religious  mind  of  Islam. 

Above  all  things,  [he  wrote]  seriousness  in  argument 
with  them  seems  most  desirable,  for  without  it  they 
laugh  away  the  clearest  proofs.  Zeal  for  making  pro¬ 
selytes  they  are  used  to  and  generally  attribute  to  a 
false  motive ;  but  a  tender  concern  manifested  for  their 
souls  is  certainly  new  to  them,  and  seemingly  produces 
corresponding  seriousness  in  their  minds. 

But  he  knew  the  limitations  of  argument.  “  I 
wish  a  spirit  of  enquiry  may  be  excited,  but  I  lay 
not  much  stress  upon  clear  arguments ;  the  work 
of  God  is  seldom  wrought  in  this  way.” 

The  possibilities  of  his  work  in  Arabic,  the  great 
religious  tongue  of  the  Moslem  world,  fired  his 
imagination.  As  he  began  the  Arabic  New  Testa¬ 
ment  he  wrote,  “  So  now,  favente  Deo,  we  will 
begin  to  preach  to  Arabia,  Syria,  Persia,  India, 
Tartary,  China,  half  of  Africa,  all  the  south  coast 
of  the  Mediterranean  and  Turkey,  and  one  tongue 
shall  suffice  for  them  all.” 

Brown  and  Buchanan  sent  to  assist  him  in  this 
work  an  extraordinary  and  tormenting  character. 


206 


Henry  Martyn 


whom  they  might  have  chosen  expressly  for  the 
discipline  of  a  saint.  When  Mrs  Sherwood  first 
met  him  at  Henry  Martyn’s  dinner  table  she  poured 
out  into  her  diary  impressions  of  “  that  wild  man 
of  the  desert  ”  : 

Every  feature  in  the  large  disk  of  Sabat’s  face  was 
what  we  should  call  exaggerated.  His  eyebrows  were 
arched,  black,  and  strongly  pencilled  ;  his  eyes  dark 
and  round,  and  from  time  to  time  flashing  with  un¬ 
subdued  emotion,  and  ready  to  kindle  to  flame  on  the 
most  trifling  occasion.  His  nose  was  high,  his  mouth 
wide,  his  teeth  large,  and  looked  white  in  contrast  with 
his  bronzed  complexion  and  fierce  black  mustachios. 
He  was  a  large  and  powerful  man,  and  generally  wore  a 
skull-cap  of  rich  shawling,  or  embroidered  silk,  with 
circular  flaps  of  the  same  hanging  over  each  ear. 

She  expounded  the  details  of  his  costume,  silk 
attire,  dagger,  ear-rings  and  golden  chain,  as  though 
she  could  not  satisfy  her  own  interest  in  that  striking 
figure. 

This  son  of  the  desert  never  sat  in  a  chair  without 
contriving  to  tuck  up  his  legs  under  him  on  the  seat, 
in  attitude  very  like  a  tailor  on  his  board.  The  only 
languages  which  he  was  able  to  speak  were  Persian, 
Arabic,  and  a  very  little  bad  Hindustani  ;  but  what 
was  wanting  in  the  words  of  this  man  was  more  than 
made  up  by  the  loudness  with  which  he  uttered  them, 
for  he  had  a  voice  like  roaring  thunder. 

When  that  mighty  voice  first  resounded  through 
Martyn’s  bungalow,  Sabat  was  midway  in  a  wild 
career.  An  Arab  of  the  Arabs,  after  a  life  of 
wanderings,  passions,  remorses,  protestations,  re¬ 
cantations,  he  was  at  last  sewn  up  in  a  sack  and 
dropped  by  orders  of  a  Malayan  prince  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  But  his  last  message,  the  message 
of  a  lonely  prisoner  writing  in  his  own  blood. 


The  Linguist 


207 


declared  that  he  died  in  the  Christian  faith.  It  had 
taken  the  death  of  one  saint  and  the  life  of  another 
to  win  him. 

He  was  first  driven  to  Christianity  by  remorse. 
The  friend  of  his  youth,  with  whom  he  had  made 
the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  came  across  an  Arabic 
Bible  in  Cabul  of  all  unlikely  places,  and  far  from 
any  human  teacher  became  a  disciple  of  Christ. 
The  change  in  him  could  not  be  hid,  and  he  had 
to  fly  for  his  life.  He  came  to  Bokhara.  Sabat 
his  friend  was  in  the  city. 

“  I  had  no  pity,”  said  Sabat  afterwards.  “  I 
delivered  him  up  to  Morad  Shah  the  king.”  In 
the  market-place  they  cut  off  one  of  the  Christian’s 
hands,  Sabat  the  informer  standing  by  in  the  crowd 
that  watched.  Then  they  pressed  him  to  recant. 

He  made  no  answer  [Sabat  said  afterwards],  but 
looked  up  steadfastly  towards  heaven,  like  Stephen, 
the  first  martyr,  his  eyes  streaming  with  tears.  He 
looked  at  me,  but  it  was  with  the  countenance  of  for¬ 
giveness.  H  s  other  hand  was  then  cut  off.  But  he 
never  changed,  and  when  he  bowed  his  head  to  receive 
the  blow  of  death  all  Bokhara  seemed  to  say,  “  What 
new  thing  is  this  ?  ” 

Sabat  could  not  ease  himself  of  his  friend’s  last 
look.  In  South  India  he  read  for  himself  the  book 
that  had  made  a  martyr.  Then  he  all  but  bullied 
the  chaplain,  Dr  Kerr,  until  he  gave  him  baptism. 
But  in  sooth,  when  Martyn  first  knew  him  Sabat 
had  gone  but  a  very  little  way  along  the  Christian 
path.  Martyn  welcomed  him  with  eagerness,  but 
soon  found  that  with  his  coming  domestic  peace 
was  gone. 

Sabat  lives  and  eats  with  me  and  goes  to  his  bungalow 


208 


Henry  Martyn 


at  night,  so  that  I  hope  he  has  no  care  on  his  mind. 
On  Sunday  morning  he  went  to  church  with  me.  While 
I  was  in  the  vestry,  a  bearer  took  away  his  chair  from 
him,  saying  it  was  another  gentleman’s.  The  Arab 
took  fire  and  left  the  church,  and  when  I  sent  the  clerk 
after  him  he  would  not  return. 

That  was  the  precursor  of  many  storms.  At  any 
moment  Martyn  looking  up  from  his  books  would 
find  flashing  black  eyes  and  a  livid  countenance 
glaring  at  him,  while  floods  of  angry  Arabic  or 
Persian  poured  forth  in  a  voice  of  thunder  de¬ 
manding  the  instant  dismissal  of  one  of  the 
servants  or  a  fellow  translator  for  some  insult ; 
or  threatening  eternal  wrath  because  when  he 
was  late  for  dinner  Martyn  and  his  guests  sat 
down  without  him.  Naturally  Sabat  looms  large 
in  Martyn’s  journal. 

Poor  Sabat  fell  into  one  of  his  furious  passions.  I 
thought  of  St  James’s  words,  “set  on  fire  of  hell.”  He 
thirsted  for  revenge  on  one  of  the  servants  who  had 
offended  him.  He  went  and  fetched  his  sword  and 
dagger  and  with  lips  trembling  with  rage  vowed  he 
would  kill  the  man. 

Sabat  has  been  tolerably  quiet  this  week,  but  think 
of  the  keeper  of  a  lunatic  and  you  see  me.  After  he 
got  home  at  night  he  sent  a  letter  complaining  of  a 
high  crime  and  misdemeanour  in  some  servant ;  I  sent 
him  a  soothing  letter  and  the  wild  beast  fell  asleep. 

He  said  he  would  never  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
Mirza.  And  why  ?  Because  he  knew  the  servants 
would  at  last  say,  “  This  belongs  to  the  Hindoostanee 
moonshee,  and  this  to  the  Arabian  moonshee,”  thus 
equalizing  him  with  an  Indian,  and  depriving  him  of 
his  Arabian  honour. 

He  is  angry  with  me  for  not  hating  Mirza  too, 
according  to  the  Arabian  proverb — that  a  friend  is  an 
enemy  of  his  friend’s  enemy. 


The  Linguist 


209 


Somehow  Martyn  managed  to  love  his  tormentor. 
“  He  is  very  dear  to  me.  When  I  think  of  the 
circumstances  of  his  life,  and  look  upon  him,  I 
cannot  help  considering  it  as  one  of  the  most  singular 
and  interesting  events  of  my  life  that  I  was  brought 
acquainted  with  him.  Indeed,  everything  in  the 
east  has  been  interesting  to  me.”  He  sat  with 
Sabat  night  after  night  when  he  was  ill,  and 
handled  his  tantrums  with  a  gentleness  and  humility 
that  few  men  could  have  shown. 

If  in  any  of  our  disputes  I  get  the  better  of  him,  he  is 
stung  to  the  quick  and  does  not  forget  it  for  days.  So 
I  avoid  as  much  as  possible  all  questions  gendering 
strifes.  If  he  sees  anything  wrong  in  me,  any  appear¬ 
ance  of  pride  or  love  of  grandeur,  he  tells  me  of  it  without 
ceremony,  and  thus  he  is  a  friend  indeed.  He  describes 
so  well  the  character  of  a  missionary  that  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  great  house  and  mean  to  sell  it  at  the  first 
opportunity  and  take  the  smallest  quarters  I  can  find. 

Most  charming  is  Martyn’s  humorous  tolerance 
of  Sabat’s  intellectual  bombast. 

He  loves  as  a  Christian  brother  [Martyn  wrote],  but 
as  a  logician,  he  holds  us  all  in  supreme  contempt. 
He  assumes  all  the  province  of  reasoning  as  his  own 
by  right,  and  decides  every  question  magisterially. 
He  allows  Europeans  to  know  a  little  about  Arithmetic 
and  Navigation,  but  no  hing  more.  Dear  man  !  I 
smile  to  observe  his  pedantry.  Never  have  I  seen  such 
an  instance  of  dogmatical  pride,  since  I  heard  Dr  Parr 
preach  his  Greek  sermon  at  St  Mary’s,  about  the  to  6V. 

He  looks  on  the  missionaries  at  Serampore  as  so  many 
degrees  below  him  in  intellect  that  he  says  he  could 
write  so  deeply  on  a  text  that  not  one  of  them  would 
be  able  to  follow  him.  So  I  have  challenged  him  in 
their  name,  and  to-day  he  has  brought  me  the  first 
half  of  his  essay  or  sermon  on  a  text :  with  some  in¬ 
genuity  it  is  the  most  idle  display  of  schoolboy  pedantic 
logic  you  ever  saw. 


o 


210 


Henry  Martyn 


When  a  young  officer  told  Martyn  that  some 
friends  had  fooled  him  about  a  supposed  text  in  the 
Bible  which  said  that  men  should  become  bears, 
Sabat  rushed  into  the  conversation.  44  Oh,  if  there 
is  such  an  expression  in  the  word  of  God  it  must 
be  true,”  he  said,  44  and  we  will  prove  it  by 
logic .”  1 

But  as  the  translation  proceeded  Martyn  found 
it  impossible  ever  to  convince  this  logician  of  a 
flaw  in  his  own  work. 

Sabat  would  often  contend  for  a  whole  morning  [Mrs 
Sherwood  says]  about  the  meaning  of  an  unimportant 
word  ;  and  Mr  Martyn  has  not  unseldom  ordered  his 
palanquin  and  come  over  to  us,  to  get  out  of  the  sound 
of  the  voice  of  the  fierce  Ishmaelite. 

44  If  all  the  Indian  moonshees  in  Calcutta  should 
unite,”  said  Martyn,  44 1  fear  Sabat  would  not 
value  their  opinion  a  straw.  4  He  did  not  come 
from  Persia  to  India  to  learn  Persian.’  ” 

In  Arabic,  Sabat ’s  grammar  needed  watchfulness, 
but  his  style  was  nervous  and  idiomatic.  In 
Persian  his  writing  was  more  than  usually  inter¬ 
larded  with  Arabic  phrases  ;  and  Martyn  became 
convinced  that  it  was  faulty  in  style,  and  that 
the  final  New  Testament  translation  in  Persian 
would  not  be  made  outside  Persia  itself. 

Before  the  second  edition  of  the  Arabic  what  say  you, 
[he  wrote  to  David  Brown]  to  my  carrying  the  first 
with  me  to  Arabia,  having  under  the  other  arm  the 
Persian  to  be  examined  at  Shiraz  or  Teheran  ? 

So  he  planned,  his  mind  moving  with  an  almost 
gay  freedom  at  this  beloved  task.  He  speaks  with 

1  Memoir  of  Daniel  Corrie,  p.  130. 


The  Linguist 


21 1 


firm  assurance,  always  the  master  and  never  the 
slave  of  meticulous  grammatical  details.  He  criti¬ 
cizes  the  setting  out  of  Arabic  grammar  :  “  What 
Erpenius  has  comprehended  in  a  couple  of  pages 
Mr  B.  has  wire-drawn  through  a  folio.”  He  is 
equally  frank  over  other  men’s  translations.  In 
Arabic — “  The  New  Testament  we  have,  edited  by 
Erpenius,  is  indescribably  bad  ;  it  is  not  a  trans¬ 
lation  but  a  paraphrase,  and  that  always  wrong.” 
Greatly  daring,  he  will  even  pass  independent 
judgment  on  the  English  Authorized  Version.  “  It 
appears  to  me  that  the  two  royal  authors  have 
suffered  more  from  the  plebeian  touch  of  their 
interpreters,  than  even  the  prophets  or  any 
others  but  Job.”  Nay,  the  Martyn  of  these  days 
is  audacious.  “  The  books  which  you  mention  I 
shall  expect  with  impatience.  Street’s  version ; 
Hammond  who  is  a  learned  man.  Horne  is  all 
words.  Next  to  oriental  translations,  my  wish 
and  prayer  is,  that  I  may  live  to  give  a  new  English 
version  of  the  Bible  from  Job  to  Malachi.  Such 
are  some  of  my  modest  desires.” 

A  mind  like  Martyn’s  could  not  be  incessantly 
busy  with  the  details  of  half  a  dozen  languages, 
without  enquiry  as  to  their  relation  to  one  another 
and  the  nature  of  all  language. 

I  suppose  [he  wrote  to  Corrie]  that  of  all  things  in  the 
world  language  is  that  which  submits  itself  most  ob¬ 
sequiously  to  our  examination,  and  may  therefore 
be  understood  better  than  anything  else.  For  we  can 
summon  it  before  us  without  any  trouble,  and  make  it 
assume  any  form  we  please,  and  turn  it  upside  down 
and  inside  out,  and  yet  I  must  confess  the  more  I  look 
at  it  the  more  I  am  puzzled.  I  seem  to  be  gazing  with 
stupid  wonder  at  the  legerdemain  of  a  conjuror. 


212 


Henry  Martyn 


In  the  story  of  linguistic  speculation  he  stood 
at  a  time  of  change  and  boundless  expectation. 
The  eighteenth  century  had  wondered  whether 
the  gift  of  speech  was  given  to  man  ready-made 
or  whether  it  grew.  Herder  ( Origin  of  Language , 
1772)  supposed  that  it  grew,  since  nothing  direct 
from  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  could  be  so  illogical 
and  full  of  caprice  as  any  human  speech.  Then 
empire  in  the  east  gave  a  new  direction  to  men’s 
thoughts  of  language. 

Coeurdoux,  a  French  missionary,  had  sent  to  the 
French  Institut  in  1767  a  memoir  calling  attention 
to  the  similarity  of  many  Sanskrit  words,  and  some 
of  its  flexions,  with  Latin.  And  English  Sanskrit 
scholars.  Sir  Charles  Wilkins  and  Sir  William  Jones, 
did  their  part  in  creating  a  tendency  to  make  San¬ 
skrit  the  mother  of  tongues.  And  so  with  the 
new  century  scholars  were  busy  with  the  genealogy 
of  languages.  Men  felt  that  they  were  on  the 
verge  of  some  great  and  unifying  discovery. 
Martyn  like  the  rest  was  on  tiptoe  with  expecta¬ 
tion.  He  rejected  Sanskrit  speculations  and  looked 
on  Hebrew,  which  for  Sir  William  Jones  was  “  rather 
an  object  of  veneration  than  delight,”  as  the  possible 
norm  and  fountain  of  language. 

I  have  been  seized  with  a  philological  mania  again 
[he  wrote  to  a  friend],  and  after  passing  some  hours  in 
sleepless  cogitation,  was  obliged  to  get  up  to  examine 
all  the  Greek  prepositions,  and  see  if  I  could  not  derive 
them  all  from  the  Hebrew. 

I  am  glad  you  take  a  liking  to  Hebrew.  It  transports 
me  at  present.  My  speculations  occupy  me  night  and  day. 

.  .  I  carry  these  thoughts  to  bed  with  me,  and  there 
am  I  all  night  long  in  my  dreams  tracing  etymologies, 
and  measuring  the  power  of  some  Hebrew  letter. 


The  Linguist 


213 


I  sit  hours  alone,  contemplating  this  mysterious 
language.  I  sometimes  say  in  my  vain  heart,  I  will 
either  make  a  deep  cut  in  the  mine  of  philology  or  I  will 
do  nothing. 

How  do  you  go  on  in  Hebrew  ?  Though  my  duty 
calls  me  to  other  languages,  I  am  perpetually  speculating 
on  that,  and  the  nature  of  language  in  general.  It  goes 
against  the  grain  with  me  now  to  read  a  little  Arabic 
or  Greek,  as  much  as  it  once  did  to  cram  a  proposition 
I  did  not  understand.  How  or  by  what  magic  is  it,  that 
we  convey  our  thoughts  to  one  another  with  such  ease 
and  accuracy  ?  Lately  I  was  called  on  duty  to  a  distant 
station,  the  way  to  which  was  chiefly  on  the  river.  There, 
far  removed  from  noise,  and  everything  European/  I 
glided  along,  speculating  with  as  much  subtilty  as  the 
visionary  yv/xvocro(f>oL  who  pursue  their  reveries  on  the 
banks.  These  hermits  literally  forsake  the  world  ; 
they  build  a  little  hut  close  to  the  margin  of  the  river 
and  there  they  sit  and  muse.  .  .  .  It  is  probable  that 
for  some  time  to  come,  as  long  as  1  am  engaged  in  trans¬ 
lation,  my  thoughts  will  be  rather  tinged  with  philology. 
.  .  .  But  on  my  own  mind  I  perceive  that  I  must 
keep  a  tight  rein.  I  beg  your  prayers  that  after  having 
begun  in  the  Spirit  I  may  not  leave  off  in  the  flesh. 

Truly  love  is  better  than  knowledge.  Much  as  I 
long  to  know  what  I  seek  after,  I  would  rather  have  the 
smallest  portion  of  humility  and  love  than  the  knowledge 
of  an  archangel. 


CHAPTER  XI 


CAWNPORE  1 

This,  sir,  is  a  climate  which  tries  the  mind  like  a  furnace. 
Deterioration  seems  inherent  in  Indian  existence. — Letter  of 
Claudius  Buchanan  from  Barrackpore. 

There  was  a  hollow,  fearful  whistling,  like  human  voices,  in  the 
blast ;  and  Mr  Martyn  said,  “  It  was  often  in  his  mind,  that  the 
prince  of  the  power  of  the  air  was  permitted  to  inflict,  not  only 
all  storms  and  tempests,  but  all  diseases  and  sufferings  on  man 
in  the  flesh.” — Mrs  Sherwood’s  Autobiography. 

The  burning  winds  of  the  spring  in  Cawnpore  were 
blowing,  and  the  Sherwood  family  stationed  there 
with  the  53rd  Regiment  were  existing  as  best 
they  might.  Every  outer  door  was  shut,  and 
behind  grass  screens  they  sat  almost  in  darkness, 
under  the  punkah  in  the  central  hall  as  the  most 
endurable  place.  Captain  Sherwood  had  his  table 
with  account  books  and  journal  before  him.  In 
a  side  room  was  the  family’s  faithful  factotum. 
Sergeant  Clarke,  copying  manuscripts.  In  another 
side  room  a  silent  ayah  chewed  and  chewed  as  she 
kept  guard  over  the  white -faced  baby  on  the  floor 
with  her  toys — the  motherless  Sally  rescued  by 
Mrs  Sherwood  from  starvation  and  now  creeping 
back  to  life. 

The  Sherwoods  had  no  little  child  of  their  own 

1  Mrs  Sherwood  is  virtually  the  writer  of  this  chapter.  All  the 
quotations  from  her  are  taken  from  her  autobiography,  Life  of  Mrs 
Shenoood,  chiefly  autobiographical,  1854. 

214 


Cawnpore 


215 


in  the  spring  of  1809  ;  the  two  babies  born  to  them 
in  India  had  died  like  primroses  in  an  oven  :  but 
the  motherly  woman  had  hopes  of  another  child 
in  her  nursery  after  the  rains.  Meanwhile  the 
hot  days  dragged  on  wearily.  Mrs  Sherwood  lay 
on  the  sofa,  a  table  beside  her,  with  pen  and  ink 
and  any  books  she  could  lay  hold  of.  64  Somebody 
lent  me  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Mr  Sherwood  picked 
up  an  old  copy  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison.”  On  a 
tiny  chair  by  that  sofa,  with  a  tiny  table  beside  it, 
sat  the  demurest  of  little  quiet  girls,  the  orphan, 
Annie  Childe,  another  babe  wThom  Mrs  Sherwood 
had  rescued  as  a  little  drugged  starveling  from  a 
heartless  nurse.  Cared  for  and  daintily  clad  she 
looked  “a  delicate  little  lady,”  and  passed  the  long 
hot  days  placidly  enough  at  Mrs  Sherwood’s  side. 

“  I  had  my  orphan,  my  little  Annie,  always  by 
me.  ...  I  had  given  her  a  good-sized  box,  painted 
green,  with  a  lock  and  key.  She  was  the  neatest 
of  all  neat  little  people,  somewhat  faddy  and  par¬ 
ticular.  She  was  the  child  of  all  others  to  live 
with  an  ancient  grandmother.  Annie’s  treasures 
were  few,  but  they  were  all  contained  in  her  green 
box.  She  never  wanted  occupation :  she  was 
either  dressing  her  doll  or  finding  pretty  verses  in 
her  Bible,  marking  the  places  with  an  infinitude 
of  minute  pieces  of  paper.” 

They  were  sitting  so  on  the  morning  of  the  80th 
of  May  1809,  the  silence  only  broken  by  the  click 
of  the  punkah  and  the  moaning  of  the  hot  wind 
outside,  when,  the  lady  tells  us,  44  We  suddenly 
heard  the  quick  steps  of  many  bearers.  Mr  Sher¬ 
wood  ran  out  to  the  leeward  of  the  house,  and  ex¬ 
claimed,  4  Mr  Martyn  !  ’ 


2l6 


Henry  Martyn 


44  The  next  moment  I  saw  him  lead  in  that 
excellent  man,  and  saw  our  visitor,  a  moment 
afterwards,  fall  down  in  a  fainting  fit.  .  .  .  In  his 
fainting  state  Mr  Martyn  could  not  have  retired 
to  the  sleeping-room  which  we  caused  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  immediately  for  him,  because  we  had  no 
means  of  cooling  any  sleeping-room  so  thoroughly 
as  we  could  the  hall.  We  therefore  had  a  couch  set 
for  him  in  the  hall.  There  he  was  laid,  and  very 
ill  he  was  for  a  day  or  two.  The  hot  winds  left  us 
and  we  had  a  close  suffocating  calm.  Mr  Martyn 
could  not  lift  his  head  from  the  couch.” 

Martyn  had  been  transferred  by  the  military 
authorities  from  Dinapore  to  Cawnpore  in  April 
1809,  at  the  hottest  moment  in  the  year.  He  left 
Sabat  and  his  pretty  wife  Ameena  (a  couple  who 
spent  their  time  together  in  noisy  quarrels)  to 
come  up  by  water  with  all  the  household  goods, 
and  he  set  out  by  palanquin,  saying  good-bye  to 
Dinapore  with  some  regret. 

Preparation  for  departure  does  not  disturb  and  disorder 
me  as  it  used  to  do.  The  little  things  of  this  world 
come  more  as  matters  of  course.  Still  I  find  it  necessary 
to  repeat  often  in  the  day,  “  Thou  wilt  keep  him  in 
perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  staid  on  Thee.”  My  men 
seem  to  be  in  a  more  flourishing  state  than  they  have 
yet  been.  About  thirty  attend  every  night.  I  have 
had  a  delightful  party  this  week  of  six  young  men  who 
I  hope  will  prove  to  be  true  soldiers  of  Christ. 

That  three-hundred-mile  palanquin  journey  in 
the  heat  was  an  absurdity.  44 1  transported 
myself  with  such  rapidity  to  this  place,  that  I 
nearly  transported  myself  out  of  the  world,”  he 
told  David  Brown.  At  first  he  travelled  by  night 
only.  But  Mrs  Sherwood  explains  that  between 


Cawnpore 


217 


Allahabad  and  Cawnpore  there  was  no  halting- 
place,  and  Martyn  when  he  fainted  in  her  hall  had 
been  travelling  for  two  days  and  two  nights  without 
a  pause,  slung  in  a  palanquin  that  could  do  nothing 
to  keep  out  winds  that  burnt  like  fire  from  a  furnace. 

She  took  care  of  him,  and  he  had  one  of  his  rare 
glimpses  of  domestic  life. 

“  When  Mr  Martyn  got  a  little  better  he  became 
very  cheerful,  and  seemed  quite  happy  with  us  all 
about  him.  He  commonly  lay  on  his  couch  in  the 
hall  during  the  morning,  with  many  books  near  to 
his  hand,  and  amongst  these  always  a  Hebrew 
Bible  and  a  Greek  Testament.  Soon,  very  soon, 
he  began  to  talk  to  me  of  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind,  calling  to  me  at  my  table  to  tell  me  his 
thoughts. 

“In  a  very  few  days  he  had  discerned  the  sweet 
qualities  of  the  orphan  Annie,  and  had  so  encouraged 
her  to  come  about  him  that  she  drew  her  chair, 
and  her  table,  and  her  green  box  to  the  vicinity  of 
his  couch.  She  showed  him  her  verses,  and  con¬ 
sulted  him  about  the  adoption  of  more  passages 
into  the  number  of  her  favourites.  What  could 
have  been  more  beautiful  than  to  see  the  Senior 
Wrangler  and  the  almost  infant  Annie  thus  con¬ 
versing  together,  while  the  elder  seemed  to  be  in 
no  way  conscious  of  any  condescension  in  bringing 
his  mind  down  to  the  level  of  the  child’s  ? 

“  When  Mr  Martyn  lost  the  worst  symptoms 
of  his  illness  he  used  to  sing  a  great  deal.  He  had 
an  uncommonly  fine  voice  and  fine  ear  ;  he  could 
sing  many  fine  chants,  and  a  vast  variety  of  hymns 
and  psalms.  He  would  insist  upon  it  that  I  should 
sing  with  him,  and  he  taught  me  many  tunes,  all 


2l8 


Henry  Martyn 


of  which  were  afterwards  brought  into  requisition  ; 
and  when  fatigued  himself,  he  made  me  sit  by  his 
couch  and  practise  these  hymns.” 

And  so  the  good  woman  mothered  him,  knowing 
that  she  had  found  a  saint,  but  a  little  concerned 
because  he  did  not  seem  44  very  distinct  in  all  his 
religious  views  ”  (there  is  no  indistinctness  about 
the  views  of  the  writer  of  the  Fairchild  Family), 
and  because  of  a  certain  vague  trustfulness  over 
money.  He  sent  off  a  coolie  to  draw  for  him 
long  arrears  of  salary,  involving  the  payment  to 
the  messenger  of  some  hundreds  of  pounds  counted 
out  in  silver  into  cotton  bags.  64  Mr  Martyn  said 
in  a  quiet  voice  to  us,  4  The  coolie  does  not  come 
with  my  money.  I  was  thinking  this  morning 
how  rich  I  should  be  ;  and  now  I  should  not  wonder 
in  the  least  if  he  has  run  off  and  taken  my  treasure 
with  him.’  4  What  !  ’  we  exclaimed.  4  Surely  you 
have  not  sent  a  common  coolie  for  your  pay  ?  ’ 
4 1  have,’  he  replied.” 

The  money  arrived  ;  and  Martyn  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand  his  friends’  concern  about  it. 

But  he  was  now  recovering  and  must  get  to  the 
work  of  his  new  station.  His  first  impressions, 
outside  the  Sherwoods’  bungalow,  were  not  cheering. 

I  do  not  like  this  place  at  all.  There  is  no  church, 
not  so  much  as  the  fly  of  a  tent ;  what  to  do  I  know 
not,  except  to  address  Lord  Minto  in  a  private  letter. 

I  feel  fixed  at  the  last  place  where  I  shall  ever  live 
in  India,  and  sometimes  look  with  interest  at  the  road 
that  leads  to  Cabul  and  Candahar.  ...  I  hear  of  a 
Mrs  A.  as  one  who  is  religious,  and  is  even  suspected  of 
singing  Psalms  of  a  Sunday.  Such  flagrant  violations 
of  established  rules  seem  to  mark  her  for  one  of  our 
fraternity. 


Cawnpore 


219 


His  first  service  in  Cawnpore,  himself  still  a 
tottering  convalescent,  was  held  out  of  doors  on 
the  parade  on  May  14. 

Two  officers  dropped  down,  and  some  of  the  men. 
They  wondered  how  I  could  go  through  the  fatigue. 
When  I  looked  at  the  other  end  of  the  square  which 
they  had  formed,  I  gave  up  all  hopes  of  making  myself 
heard,  but  it  seems  they  did  hear.  There  are  above  a 
hundred  men  in  the  hospital.  What  time  shall  I  find 
for  doing  half  what  ought  to  be  done  ? 

Already  he  had  made  friends,  as  was  his  way 
in  every  place,  with  a  small  group  of  “  serious  ” 
soldiers.  Mrs  Sherwood  takes  up  her  pen  again  : 

“  As  soon  as  Mr  Martyn  could  in  any  way  exert 
himself,  he  made  acquaintance  with  some  of  the 
pious  men  of  the  regiment  (the  same  poor  men 
whom  I  have  mentioned  before,  who  used  to  meet 
in  ravines,  in  huts,  in  woods  and  in  every  wild 
and  secret  place  they  could  find,  to  read  and  pray 
and  sing) ;  and  he  invited  them  to  come  to  him 
in  our  house,  Mr  Sherwood  making  no  objection. 
The  time  first  fixed  was  an  evening  after  parade, 
and  in  consequence  they  all  appeared  at  the 
appointed  hour,  each  carrying  their  mora  (a  low 
seat),  and  their  books  tied  up  in  pocket-handker¬ 
chiefs.  In  this  very  unmilitary  fashion  they  were 
all  met  in  a  body  by  some  officers.  It  was  with 
some  difficulty  that  Mr  Sherwood  could  divert  the 
storm  of  displeasure.  .  .  .  These  poor  good  men 
were  received  by  Mr  Martyn  in  his  own  apartment; 
and  a  most  joyful  meeting  he  had  with  them. 
We  did  not  join  the  party,  but  we  heard  them 
praying  and  singing  and  the  sound  was  very  sweet. 
Mr  Martyn  then  promised  them  that  when  he  had 


220 


Henry  Martyn 


got  a  house  he  would  set  aside  a  room  for  them, 
where  they  might  come  every  evening.” 

Martyn  bought  a  house  near  the  Sepoy  lines. 
4  4  Now,  Cawnpore  is  about  one  of  the  most  dusty 
places  in  the  world,”  said  Mrs  Sherwood,  who 
disapproved  his  choice,  44  and  the  Sepoy  lines  are 
the  most  dusty  part  of  Cawnpore.”  His  com¬ 
pound  was  not  near  enough  to  his  friends,  but  it 
had  its  advantages,  for  its  44  funereal  avenue  ”  of 
palm-trees  and  aloes  that  rattled  in  the  hot  wind, 
led  not  to  one  bungalow  but  two.  This  was  ad¬ 
mirable.  Sabat  and  the  goods  arrived,  and  the 
Arab  and  his  lady  were  bestowed  in  the  lesser 
bungalow,  while  Martyn  inhabited  the  larger,  or 
such  part  of  it  as  was  not  filled  with  44  pious 
soldiers  ”  reading  the  Bible,  scribes  copying  transla¬ 
tions  amidst  piles  of  manuscripts  and  dictionaries, 
or  a  medley  of  guests  who  gathered  from  no  one 
knows  where.  44  A  vast  number  and  variety  of 
huts  and  sheds  formed  one  boundary  of  the  com¬ 
pound  ;  these  were  concealed  by  the  shrubs.  But 
who  would  venture  to  give  any  account  of  the 
heterogeneous  population  which  occupied  these 
buildings  ?  For  besides  the  usual  complement  of 
servants  found  in  and  about  the  houses  of  persons 
of  a  certain  rank  in  India,  we  must  add  to  Mr 
Martyn’s  household  a  multitude  of  pundits,  moon- 
shis,  schoolmasters  and  poor  nominal  Christians, 
who  hung  about  him  because  there  was  no  other 
to  give  them  a  handful  of  rice  for  their  daily  main¬ 
tenance  ;  and  most  strange  was  the  murmur  which 
proceeded  at  times  from  this  ill-assorted  and  dis¬ 
cordant  multitude.”  Such  was  Mrs  Sherwood’s 
impression  of  the  menage . 


Cawnpore 


221 


\ 


Sabat  was  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  his  new 
mansion,  and  work  went  on  apace. 

He  is  gentle  and  almost  as  diligent  as  I  could  wish 
[said  Martyn].  Everything  seems  to  please  him.  His 
bungalow  joins  mine,  and  is  very  neat ;  so  from  morning 
to  night  we  work  together,  and  the  work  goes  forward. 
The  first  two  or  three  days  he  translated  into  Arabic 
and  I  was  his  scribe  ;  but  this  being  too  fatiguing  to 
me,  we  have  been  since  that  at  the  Persian. 

The  spurt  did  not  last  long. 

Sabat  does  not  work  half  hard  enough  for  me.  I  feel 
grieved  and  ashamed  that  we  produce  so  little,  but  the 
fault  is  not  mine.  I  would  never  willingly  be  employed 
about  anything  else,  but  Sabat  has  no  ardour.  The 
smallest  difficulty  discourages  him,  the  slightest  headache 
is  an  excuse  for  shutting  up  his  books,  and  doing  nothing 
for  days, 

Sabat  creeps  on,  and  smokes  his  hookah  with  great 
complacency  if  he  gets  through  a  chapter  a  day.  I 
grieve  at  this  hireling  spirit,  but  for  peace  sake  I  have 
long  ceased  to  say  anything. 

At  sunset  the  translation  was  dropped,  and  the 
frail  linguist,  whose  ardour  had  exhausted  the 
energies  of  his  various  assistants,  went  out  for 
exercise.  Two  evenings  in  the  week  he  spent 
with  his  soldiers.  On  the  others  he  was  apt  to 
gravitate  towards  that  friendly  household  of  the 
Sherwoods.  For  the  soaring  linguist  was  very 
human.  Mrs  Sherwood  took  her  airing  in  an  open 
palanquin,  wearing  44  a  lace  cap  with  Europe 
ribbons,”  while  Captain  Sherwood  rode,  and  Martyn 
would  often  arrive  at  their  bungalow  before  his 
hosts  returned.  44  Two  or  three  times  a  week 
he  used  to  come  on  horseback,  with  the  sais  running 
by  his  side.  He  sat  his  horse  as  if  he  were  not 


222 


Henry  Marty n 


quite  aware  that  he  was  on  horseback,  and  he 
generally  wore  his  coat  as  if  it  were  falling  from 
his  shoulders.  When  he  dismounted,  his  favourite 
place  was  in  the  veranda  with  a  book,  till  we  came 
in  from  our  airing.  And  when  we  returned  many 
a  sweet  and  long  discourse  we  had  whilst  waiting 
for  our  dinner.  Mr  Martyn  often  looked  up  to  the 
starry  heavens,  and  spoke  of  those  glorious  worlds 
of  which  we  know  so  little  now,  but  of  which  we 
hope  to  know  so  much  hereafter.  He  used  often 
to  show  me  the  pole-star  just  above  the  line  of  the 
horizon  ;  and  I  have  seen  the  moon  when  almost 
new  looking  like  a  ball  of  ebony  in  a  silver  cup.” 

In  August  1809  a  little  daughter  was  born  to 
the  Sherwoods,  whom  they  determined  to  name 
after  their  baby  Lucy  who  had  died.  When  Martyn 
came  for  the  christening  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
the  family  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  sunset 
airing.  He  told  the  servants  to  set  in  readiness  a 
table  and  water  in  a  cool  corner  of  the  long  veranda, 
not  knowing  that  he  had  chosen  for  the  christening 
the  very  spot  where  the  first  little  daughter  had 
been  laid  dying  on  a  mattress  to  catch  what  air 
there  was. 

44  Never  can  I  forget  the  solemn  manner  with 
which  Mr  Martyn  went  through  the  service,  or 
the  beautiful  and  earnest  blessing  which  he  im¬ 
plored  for  my  baby,  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
after  the  service  was  concluded.  I  still  fancy  that 
I  see  that  child  of  God  as  he  looked  down  tenderly 
on  the  gentle  babe,  and  then  looked  upwards.” 

44  This  babe  in  infancy  had  so  peculiar  a  gentle¬ 
ness  of  aspect  that  Mr  Martyn  called  her  Serena.” 
Her  parents  decided  to  go  down  to  Calcutta  in 


Cawnpore 


223 


October  and  take  the  advice  of  the  best  doctor  in 
India  as  to  whether  they  could  rear  her  in  Cawnpore. 
They  broke  up  their  household  in  the  full  expecta¬ 
tion  that  the  mother  would  be  sent  home  to  save 
her  baby’s  life,  and  two  English  ladies,  one  of 
them  Corrie’s  sister  who  had  arrived  to  join  her 
brother,  took  from  Mrs  Sherwood  the  charge  of 
the  small  orphans  she  had  rescued. 

The  Sherwoods’  last  week  was  spent  in  Martyn’s 
house.  They  slept  in  their  house-boats  and  went 
to  him  for  breakfast.  “  In  the  mornings  we  all 
used  to  set  out  together,  children  and  servants, 
to  go  up  from  the  river  to  the  house,  whilst  the 
dew  lay  yet  upon  the  grass  ;  for  it  was  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  cold  season,  and  the  many  aromatic 
flowers  of  that  southern  climate  shed  their  perfume 
in  the  air.” 

The  children  and  ayahs  went  to  rooms  set  apart 
for  them,  and  Captain  and  Mrs  Sherwood  went 
into  the  hall,  where  Martyn  nearly  always  had 
some  guest  for  breakfast.  “  We  often  sat  long 
over  breakfast.”  Then  Martyn  turned  to  his 
translation,  and  the  Sherwoods  went  about  their 
business. 

“  Mr  Martyn’s  house  was  peaceful,  holy  and 
cheerful.” 

At  the  sunset  airing  with  the  day’s  work  done 
Martyn  enjoyed  his  friends  again,  and  on  their  last 
Sunday  he  arranged  a  little  chapel  with  his  careful 
nicety  of  touch  in  one  of  the  long  verandas,  where 
he  gave  the  Communion  to  the  Sherwoods  and  to 
sixteen  of  his  “  pious  soldiers.” 

When  he  had  seen  them  down  to  their  boats  for 
the  last  time,  “  blessing  our  little  children,”  he 


224 


Henry  Martyn 


returned  to  Cawnpore  a  lonely  man.  It  is  probable 
that  the  army  society  of  the  place  was  terrified 
of  Martyn.  Otherwise  it  is  hard  to  explain  the 
gaucherie  of  their  manners  to  the  padre. 

It  is  extraordinary  how  much  I  am  left  to  myself 
here.  In  the  midst  of  multitudes  1  am  a  solitary.  .  .  . 
The  pride  of  my  heart  has  discovered  itself  very 
strongly  since  I  entered  this  new  circle.  They  some¬ 
times  take  no  more  notice  of  me  than  a  dog,  at  other 
times  vouchsafe  a  dignified  condescension,  so  that 
were  it  not  to  become  all  things  to  all  men  in  order 
to  save  some,  I  should  never  trouble  them  with  my 
company.  But  how  then  should  I  be  like  Christ  ? 
I  would  rather  pass  my  time  with  children  if  I  had  the 
choice. 

In  his  loneliness  his  thoughts  would  not  be  kept 
from  Lydia.  “  I  love  so  true  that  though  it  is  now 
the  fifth  year  since  I  parted  from  the  object  of 
my  affections,  she  is  as  dear  to  me  as  ever,”  he 
wrote  to  Cousin  Tom  Hitchins  in  that  month  when 
the  Sherwoods  left.  Next  month  (November  1809) 
Mr  Simeon’s  letter  brought  him  news  that  his  sister 
Sally  was  dying  of  consumption.  He  could  not 
hope  that  a  letter  would  reach  her.  He  began 
one  impulsively ;  then  turned  and  wrote  instead 
to  her  husband  :  “  God  make  us  both  from  this 

time  live  more  as  pilgrims  and  strangers  upon  the 
earth.” 

His  home  letters  now  let  slip  the  fact  that  this 
man  with  his  gigantic  plans  knew  well  enough, 
when  he  gave  it  a  thought,  that  the  disease  which 
had  killed  all  his  near  relatives  was  working  in 
him  also.  The  dusty  lines  in  Cawnpore  were  trying 
to  him,  and  he  began  to  confess  that  every  sermon 
he  preached  left  him  in  pain.  “  There  is  some- 


Cawnpore 


225 


thing  in  the  air  at  the  close  of  the  rains  so  un¬ 
favourable  that  public  speaking  at  that  time  is  a 
violent  strain  upon  the  whole  body.  .  .  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  my  strength  for  public  speaking  is  almost 
gone.  My  ministrations  among  the  Europeans  at 
this  station  have  injured  my  lungs,”  he  told  David 
Brown. 

They  were  difficult  ministrations  even  for  a 
strong  man.  Soldiers  fainted  at  the  out-of-door 
parades,  and  ladies  chattered  in  the  General’s 
drawing-room  where  he  went  on  for  a  second 
service.  He  decided  to  ask  for  the  use  of  the 
billiard-room  “  which  is  better  than  the  ball-room,” 
but  they  gave  him  the  riding-school  instead.  “  The 
effluvium  was  such  as  would  please  only  the  knights 
of  the  turf.”  When  the  rains  came,  out-of-door 
parades  had  to  be  scratched.  “  The  General  has 
not  yet  forwarded  to  Government  the  proposal  for 
a  church,”  Martyn  wrote  after  long  delay.  But 
he  at  length  prevailed  on  the  authorities  to  adapt 
an  ordinary  bungalow  near  his  own  for  church 
services.  He  watched  eagerly  over  the  alterations, 
but  they  went  slowly.  In  December  1809,  when 
every  service  was  leaving  him  exhausted,  Sabat 
challenged  him  to  add  to  his  labours  another  sermon, 
to  the  strangest  congregation  that  ever  gathered 
to  listen  to  a  saint.  Beggars  of  all  sorts  found 
their  way  to  Martyn’s  house,  among  them  crowds 
of  religious  mendicants.  To  save  time  he  gave 
out  that  his  alms  would  be  given  only  once  a  week. 
The  news  went  round  the  beggar  world,  and  every 
Sunday  his  gates  were  thrown  open  to  admit  a 
motley  crowd,  to  whom  he  gave  small  coins  or 
rice. 

p 


226 


Henry  Martyn 


Sabat  said  to  me  yesterday,  “  Your  begg  rs  are  come, 
why  do  not  you  preach  to  them  ?  it  is  yo  r  duty.”  I 
made  excuses.  But  the  true  cause  is  shame.  I  am 
afraid  of  exposing  myself  to  the  contempt  of  Sabat,  my 
servants,  and  the  mob,  by  attempting  to  speak  in  a 
language  which  I  do  not  speak  well.  This  therefore  I 
desire  to  keep  ever  before  my  mind,  that  I  must  get  to 
the  Kingdom  through  great  contempt. 

Next  Sunday  : 

In  the  afternoon  the  beggars  came,  to  the  number  of 
above  four  hundred,  and  by  the  help  of  God,  I  determined 
to  preach  to  them  though  I  felt  as  if  I  were  leading  to 
execution. 

There  was  an  open  space  in  his  garden,  green 
after  the  rain,  with  a  raised  platform  of  lime  at 
its  centre.  Here  the  beggars  were  seated,  and 
Martyn  climbed  on  to  the  platform  and  told  them 
“  that  he  gave  with  pleasure  what  alms  he  could 
afford,  but  wished  to  give  them  something  better — 
the  knowledge  of  God.” 

The  Sherwoods,  encouraged  by  doctors  to  remain 
in  India,  returned  to  Cawnpore  that  December. 
When  Henry  Martyn  rode  to  welcome  his  friends, 
“  he  looked,  we  thought,  very  ill,  and  com¬ 
plained  of  what  he  called  a  fire  burning  in  his 
breast.” 

But  he  was  full  of  his  new  venture  with  the 
beggars,  though  he  64  looked  forward  to  the  next 
attempt  with  some  dread.”  Mrs  Sherwood  went 
to  see  what  he  was  doing.  She  was  amazed. 

“  No  dreams,”  she  said,  “  or  visions  excited  in 
the  delirium  of  a  raging  fever  could  surpass  these 
realities.  They  were  young  and  old,  male  and 
female,  tall  and  short,  athletic  and  feeble,  bloated 
and  wizened ;  some  clothed  in  abominable  rags. 


Cawnpore 


227 


some  nearly  without  clothes  ;  some  plastered  with 
mud  and  cow-dung  ;  others  with  matted,  uncombed 
locks  streaming  down  to  their  heels  ;  others  with 
heads  bald  or  scabby ;  every  countenance  being 
hard  and  fixed,  as  it  were,  by  the  continual  indulgence 
of  bad  passions ;  the  features  having  become 
exaggerated,  and  the  lips  blackened  with  tobacco 
or  blood-red  with  the  juice  of  the  henna.  .  .  .  One 
little  man  used  to  come  in  a  small  cart  drawn  by 
a  bullock.  The  body  and  limbs  in  general  of  this 
poor  creature  were  so  shrivelled  as  to  give  him, 
with  his  black  skin  and  large  head,  the  appearance 
of  a  gigantic  frog.  Another  had  his  arm  fixed  above 
his  head,  the  nail  of  the  thumb  piercing  through 
the  palm  of  the  hand.  Another,  and  a  very  large 
man,  had  all  his  ribs  and  the  bones  of  his  face 
externally  traced  with  white  chalk,  which,  striking 
the  eye  in  relief  above  the  dark  skin,  made  him 
appear  as  he  approached  like  a  moving  skeleton. 
.  .  .  Such  was  the  view  of  human  nature  pre¬ 

sented  every  Sunday  evening  in  Mr  Martyn’s 
compound.” 

Mrs  Sherwood  stood  behind  Martyn  on  the  raised 
platform  that  evening  and  on  many  following 
Sundays. 

“  We  had  to  make  our  way  through  a  dense 
crowd,  with  a  temperature  often  rising  above  92°, 
whilst  the  sun  poured  its  burning  rays  upon  us 
through  a  lurid  haze  of  dust.  So  many  mon¬ 
strous  and  diseased  limbs,  and  hideous  faces,  were 
displayed  before  us  and  pushed  forward  for  our 
inspection,  that  I  have  often  made  my  way  to  the 
chabootra  with  my  eyes  shut,  whilst  Mr  Sherwood 
led  me.  I  still  imagine  that  I  hear  the  calm. 


228 


Henry  Martyn 


distinct,  and  musical  tones  of  Henry  Martyn  as 
he  stood  raised  above  the  people.” 

His  preaching  was  as  simple  as  he  could  make  it. 

I  shuffled  and  stammered  and  indeed  am  persuaded 
that  there  were  many  sentences  the  poor  things  did  not 
understand  at  all.  I  mentioned  Gunga  (Ganges),  44  a 
good  river,”  but  there  were  others  as  good.  God  loves 
Hindoos,  but  does  He  not  love  others  also  ?  He  gave 
them  a  good  river,  but  to  others  as  good.  All  are  alike 
before  God.  This  was  received  with  applause.  On 
the  work  of  the  fourth  day,  44  Sun  and  moon  are  lamps. 
Shall  I  worship  a  candle  in  my  hand  ?  As  a  candle  in 
the  house  so  is  the  sun  in  the  sky.”  Applause  from  the 
Mohammedans.  There  were  also  hisses,  but  whether 
these  betokened  displeasure  against  me  or  the  worship 
of  the  sun,  I  do  not  know.  I  then  charged  them  to 
worship  Gunga  and  sun  and  moon  no  more,  but  the 
honour  they  used  to  give  to  them,  henceforward  to 
give  to  God  their  Maker. 

They  were  no  dispassionate  audience.  Often 
as  he  preached  bursts  of  anger  would  arise,  with 
44  shouts  and  curses  and  deep  and  lengthened  groans, 
hissings  and  gestures  till  Mr  Martyn  was  compelled 
to  silence.  But  when  the  storm  passed  away  again 
might  he  be  heard  going  on  where  he  had  left  off, 
in  the  same  calm,  steadfast  tone,  as  if  he  were 
incapable  of  irritation  from  the  interruption.  Mr 
Martyn  himself  assisted  in  giving  each  person  his 
pice  (copper)  after  the  address  was  concluded ; 
and  when  he  withdrew  to  his  bungalow  I  have 
seen  him  drop  almost  fainting  on  a  sofa,  for  he  had, 
as  he  often  said,  a  slow  inflammation  burning  in 
his  chest,  and  one  which  he  knew  must  eventually 
terminate  his  existence.” 

All  that  spring  they  watched  him  tear  himself 
to  pieces  ;  cheerful  enough  when  he  came  round 


Cawnpore 


229 


after  a  day  of  translation  with  the  sense  of  some¬ 
thing  done,  and  picked  up  the  baby  Lucy  for  a 
game  before  she  went  to  bed  ;  but  plainly  enough 
a  sick  man  every  Sunday  when  the  four  services 
left  him  half-fainting  with  pain  and  exhaustion. 

Accounts  of  Sally’s  death  reached  him  in  that 
spring  of  1810,  and  with  them  an  unexpected  joy. 
Lydia  told  herself  that  he  had  now  no  sister  of  his 
own  to  correspond  with  and  wrote  offering  to  take 
a  sister’s  place  if  he  would  accept  a  correspondence 
on  that  basis.  He  was  overjoyed.  “  My  long, 
long-lost  Lydia  has  consented  to  write  to  me  again,” 
he  told  David  Brown. 

To  her  he  was  explicit  about  his  health. 

Study  never  makes  me  ill — scarcely  ever  fatigues 
me — but  my  lungs  !  death  is  seated  there  ;  it  is  speaking 
that  kills  me.  Nature  intended  me  for  chamber-counsel, 
not  for  a  pleader  at  the  bar.  But  the  call  of  Jesus 
Christ  bids  me  cry  aloud,  and  spare  not. 

You  know  how  apt  we  are  to  overstep  the  bounds 
of  prudence,  when  there  is  no  kind  monitor  at  hand  to 
warn  us  of  the  consequence. 

When  the  hot  winds  blew  again  in  April  he  had 
to  confess  to  David  Brown  and  Corrie  that  taking 
a  service  always  left  him  with  pain  in  his  chest 
and  hardly  able  to  speak  above  a  whisper.  The 
references  to  his  health  only  occurred  casually 
in  letters  crowded  with  details  about  the  transla¬ 
tions. 

Old  Mirza  gives  me  more  satisfaction  than  anyone 
in  Cawnpore.  He  seems  to  take  great  pleasure  in  seeing 
an  intricate  sentence  in  the  Epistles  unravelled. 

I  should  be  more  contented  to  depart  if  I  had  finished 
the  translation  of  the  Epistles. 


230 


Henry  Martyn 


Or  even  the  translation  is  forgotten  while  the 
scholar  moves  in  another  world. 

He  seems  to  move  in  a  world  by  himself  [he  wrote  of 
St  Paul],  and  sometimes  to  utter  the  unspeakable  words 
such  as  my  understanding  discerneth  not ;  and  when 
I  turn  to  commentators,  I  find  that  I  have  passed  out 
of  the  spiritual  to  the  material  world,  and  have  got 
among  men  like  myself. 

But  Corrie  knew  his  friend  and  knew  that  the 
health  question  was  serious.  “  It  perhaps  would 
be  of  importance,”  he  wrote  to  David  Brown,  “  to 
get  Martyn  to  resign  the  service  and  give  himself 
to  the  translating  and  printing  of  the  Scriptures. 
It  is  clear  that  his  present  labours  will  bring  an 
early  period  to  his  life  :  I  scarce  know  how  to  write 
it,  but  so  it  is.” 

Corrie  took  boat  for  Cawnpore  to  see  for  himself 
what  could  be  done.  He  found  Martyn  every 
evening,  after  ever  so  little  exertion  in  speaking, 
reduced  to  loss  of  voice,  pain  in  his  chest,  and  such 
restless  fatigue  as  kept  him  awake,  or  troubled 
his  sleep  with  confused  and  distressing  dreams 
(“  was  walking  wdth  Lydia,  both  much  affected, 
and  speaking  on  the  things  dearest  to  us  both.  I 
awoke,  and  behold  it  was  a  dream  ”) ;  yet  buoyed 
up  with  hope  and  plans  for  his  work.  “  My  church 
is  nearly  ready  for  the  organ  and  the  bell.  .  .  . 
My  work  at  present  is  evidently  to  translate  ;  here¬ 
after  I  may  itinerate.” 

“  This  morning  Martyn  said  he  thought  a  month’s 
silence  would  entirely  restore  him.”  Corrie  did 
what  he  could.  With  the  General’s  consent  he 
moved  himself  and  his  good  sister  to  Cawnpore 
to  nurse  Martyn  and  take  his  services  for  him. 


Cawupore 


231 


July  31,  1810.  On  my  first  arrival  [Come  writes] 
he  recruited  greatly  for  a  for  night,  but  is  now,  to  say 
the  least,  at  a  stand.  He  has  agreed  to  go  on  the  river 
to  try  the  effect  of  change  and  solitude.  He  objects 
to  going  to  sea  at  present.  .  .  .  The  truth  is  he  expects 
the  New  Testament  will  soon  be  done  in  Arabic.  Your 
applications  for  Arabic  have  set  him  to  work  anew  with 
an  ardour  that  nothing  but  death  can  repress. 

For  a  few  months  of  bliss  Martyn  became,  far 
more  than  he  was  aware,  the  central  figure  of  a  sort 
of  double  household.  Corrie,  that  understanding 
person,  was  with  him,  taking  services  and  setting 
him  free  for  the  beloved  translation.  Miss  Corrie 
was  with  the  Sherwoods,  and  in  the  evening  there 
were  the  ladies  to  take  for  an  airing.  Of  those 
evenings  Mrs  Sherwood  writes  :  44 1  often  went 

out  with  Mr  Martyn  in  his  gig,  during  that  month, 
when  he  used  to  call  either  for  me  or  Miss  Corrie, 
and  whoever  went  with  him  went  at  the  peril  of 
their  lives.  He  never  looked  where  he  was  driving, 
but  went  dashing  through  thick  and  thin,  being 
always  occupied  in  reading  Hindoostanee  by  word 
of  mouth,  or  discussing  some  text  of  Scripture. 
I  certainly  never  expected  to  have  survived  a 
lesson  he  gave  me  in  his  gig,  in  the  midst  of  the 
plain  at  Cawnpore,  on  the  pronunciation  of  one  of 
the  Persian  letters.” 

The  two  households  had  so  many  meals  together 
that  they  found  with  amusement  that  the  servants 
were  making  common  cause,  and  the  same  cheese 
appeared  on  the  table  at  either  house.  There 
were  hymn-singings  in  the  bungalow,  and  evening 
services  for  which  they  went  together,  44  not  omitting 
the  children,”  into  the  unfinished  church  near 
Martyn’s  house. 


232 


Henry  Martyn 


“  We  are  inexpressibly  happy  together,”  said 
Corrie,  and  for  a  time  they  thought  that  Martyn 
was  rallying.  He  himself,  engrossed  with  the 
great  work  and  delighted  with  his  friends,  was 
generally  far  too  preoccupied  to  realize  that  he 
was  ill.  When  a  bout  of  pain  and  faintness  gave 
him  pause,  and  he  stopped  to  realize  that  the 
family  disease  had  clutched  him,  he  was  probably 
less  concerned  about  it  than  any  of  the  circle  that 
watched  him  anxiously.  “  He  spoke  of  being  in 
a  consumption  in  the  tone  in  which  most  people 
would  speak  of  a  legacy,”  said  Corrie. 

As  he  flagged  more  and  more  they  decided  to 
take  him  on  the  river.  They  hired  a  pinnace  in 
which  to  go  together.  Mrs  Sherwood  describes  the 
mornings  in  the  cabin  : 

4  4  Mr  Martyn  sent  a  quantity  of  books,  and  used 
to  take  possession  of  the  sofa,  with  all  his  books 
about  him.  He  was  often  studying  Hebrew,  and 
had  huge  lexicons  lying  by  him.  Little  Lucy 
used  always  to  make  her  way  to  Mr  Martyn  when 
he  was  by  any  means  approachable.  On  one 
occasion  I  remember  seeing  the  little  one,  with 
her  grave  yet  placid  countenance,  her  silken  hair 
and  shoeless  feet,  step  out  of  the  inner  room  of 
the  pinnace  with  a  little  mora,  which  she  set  by 
Mr  Marty n’s  couch,  then  mounting  on  it,  she  got 
upon  the  sofa  which  was  low,  and  next  seated 
herself  on  his  huge  lexicon.  He  would  not  suffer 
her  to  be  disturbed,  though  he  required  his  book 
every  instant.” 

Still  he  flagged,  and  they  told  him  he  must  go 
to  sea.  He  would  not  believe  them  at  first ;  but 
as  the  Arabic  translation  drew  to  a  close  and 


Cawnpore 


233 


criticisms  reached  him  of  Sabat’s  style,  he  turned 
seawards  eagerly.  If  they  wanted  him  to  go  to 
sea,  why  not  sail  to  Arabia  and  make  before  he 
died  the  perfect  version  of  the  Arabic  New  Testa¬ 
ment  ?  On  August  22,  1810,  he  wrote  to  David 
Brown  : 

Dearest  Sir, — 

Shall  I  come  down,  or  shall  I  not  ?  I  have  an  aversion 
to  Calcutta,  with  all  the  talking  and  preaching  to 
which  I  shall  be  tempted  there ;  yet  you  insist  upon 
it,  and  sooner  or  later  I  must  pass  through  you  to  the 
sea,  or  I  shall  be  buried  here.  ...  I  want  silence  and 
diversion,  a  little  dog  to  play  with ;  or  what  would 
be  best  of  all,  a  dear  little  child.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
could  learn  when  the  ships  usually  sail  for  Mocha.  I 
have  set  my  heart  upon  going  there ;  I  could  be  there 
and  back  in  six  months.  H.  Martyn. 

Two  days  later  another  letter  followed  : 

Henceforward  I  have  done  with  India.  Arabia  shall 
hide  me  till  I  come  forth  with  an  approved  New  Testa¬ 
ment  in  Arabic.  I  do  not  ask  your  advice  because  I 
have  made  up  my  mind. 

.  .  .  So  now,  dear  Si',  take  measures  for  trans¬ 
mitting  me  with  the  least  possible  delay,  detain  me  not, 
for  the  King’s  business  requires  haste.  My  health  in 
general  is  good,  but  the  lungs  are  not  strong.  One 
loud  dispute  brings  on  pain. — Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Henry  Martyn. 

The  General  at  Cawnpore  granted  unlimited  leave 
of  absence  to  one  whom  he  probably  looked  on  as 
a  dying  man. 

Martyn’s  last  day  with  his  friends  was  a  Sunday. 
Taey  could  not  take  their  eyes  off  him,  believing 
that  they  should  see  his  face  no  more.  There  was 
a  triumphant  glow  about  him,  for  it  was  a  great  day. 


234 


Henry  Martyn 


i 


The  new  bell  was  rung  for  the  first  time  to  call 
the  people  to  the  opening  service  in  the  church 
that  he  had  made.  “  There  was  a  considerable 
congregation,”  and  Sergeant  Clarke  in  his  red 
coat  was  parish  clerk,  and  Corrie  read  the  prayers. 
Martyn  stood  up  to  preach  his  first  and  last  sermon 
in  the  new  church. 

“  A  bright  glow  prevailed,  a  brilliant  light  shone 
from  his  eyes.  He  was  filled  with  hope  and  joy. 
Most  eloquent,  earnest  and  affectionate  was  his 
address.” 

But  when  they  went  to  his  bungalow  after  service 
he  sank  fainting  on  a  sofa  in  the  hall.  There 
remained  one  more  effort  in  Cawnpore,  the  last 
act  of  his  ministry  there,  the  sermon  to  the 
beggars. 

“  When  the  sun  began  to  descend  we  went  over 
to  Mr  Martyn ’s  bungalow  to  hear  his  last  address 
to  the  fakeers.  It  was  one  of  those  sickly,  hazy, 
burning  evenings.  Mr  Martyn  nearly  fainted  again 
after  this  effort,  and  when  he  got  to  his  house, 
with  his  friends  about  him,  he  told  us  that  he  was 
afraid  he  had  not  been  the  means  of  doing  the 
smallest  good  to  any  one  of  the  strange  people 
whom  he  had  thus  so  often  addressed.” 

But  Martyn  was  wrong. 

As  he  preached  one  of  his  first  sermons  to  the 
beggars  a  group  of  young  men,  taking  the  air  in 
a  kiosk  on  the  garden  wall,  sipping  sherbet  and 
smoking,  had  been  struck  by  the  strange  proceedings 
in  the  English  house  next  door.  Down  they  came 
from  the  wall  to  see  what  Martyn  was  about. 
They  pushed  through  the  crowd  and  stood  before 
him  in  a  row,  their  arms  folded,  their  turbans 


Cawnpore 


235 


slightly  tilted  on  one  side  and  their  lips  drawn 
up  in  a  superb  sneer.  But  one  of  them  heard 
enough  to  rouse  his  keenest  curiosity.  He  wras  a 
young  Moslem,  a  sheikh  of  Delhi,  a  professor  of 
Persian  and  Arabic,  but  with  the  heart  of  a  learner. 

That  gospel  preached  to  the  poor  seemed  to 
him  something  new,  and  he  determined  to  know 
more  of  Martyn’s  faith.  He  did  not  venture  direct 
to  the  Christian  preacher,  but  made  interest  with 
Sabat  to  be  employed  as  copier  of  the  Persian 
gospel.  He  even  sought  out  Martyn’s  school- 
children  and  asked  them  to  repeat  their  lessons. 
Then  he  found  a  great  opportunity  when  they 
gave  him  charge  of  a  complete  copy  of  the  Persian 
New  Testament  on  its  way  to  the  bookbinder. 
He  held  back  the  book  till  he  had  read  it  all,  and 
with  the  reading  came  the  great  decision. 

On  that  last  Sunday  he  was  still  unknown  to 
Martyn,  but  Martyn’s  plans  were  known  to  him, 
and  Sheikh  Salih  was  making  ready  to  follow  the 
preacher  to  Calcutta  and  ask  him  there  for  baptism.1 

On  Monday  morning,  October  1,  1810,  Martyn 
must  leave  Cawnpore.  “  We  were  all  low,  very, 
very  low,”  says  Mrs  Sherwood.  Corrie,  who  had 
struggled  to  save  his  friend,  was  white  with  the 
strain  of  parting.  He  had  found  Martyn  about 
to  make  a  bonfire  of  all  his  memoranda,  but  per¬ 
suaded  him  to  let  him  keep  them  under  seal  against 
his  return,  and  so  saved  for  the  Church  that  journal 
by  which  she  knows  the  mind  of  Henry  Martyn. 
“  His  life  is  beyond  all  price  to  us,”  Corrie  wrote. 

1  He  was  baptized  on  Whit  Sunday  1811  under  the  name  of  Abd 
el  Masih,  and  became  eventually  a  clergyman  and  a  notable  Christian 
leader. 


236 


Henry  Martyn 


Only  Martyn,  in  a  strange  serenity,  hardly  realized 
their  anxiety.  He  thought  that  Corrie  must  have 
worked  too  hard,  and  wrote  to  him  from  his  boat, 
“  Your  pale  face  as  it  appeared  on  Monday  morning 
is  still  before  my  eyes,  and  will  not  let  me  be  easy 
till  you  tell  me  you  are  strong  and  prudent.” 

So  he  left  them.  “  I  am  advised,”  he  told  Lydia, 
“  to  recruit  my  strength  by  rest.  So  I  am  come 
forth  with  my  face  towards  Calcutta,  with  an 
ulterior  view  to  the  sea.” 


CHAPTER  XII 


TO  SHIRAZ 
My  home 

The  shimmery-bounded  glare, 

The  gazing  fire -hung  dome 
Of  scorching  air. 

For  friend 

The  dazzling  breathing  dream, 

The  strength  at  last  to  find 
Of  Glory  Supreme. 

From  anonymous  poem  on  Saint 
John  Baptist  in  XAPITE22I 

Read  Ephesians  i.  It  is  a  chapter  I  keep  in  mind  every  day  in 
prayer.  We  cannot  believe  too  much  or  hope  too  much. 

Henry  Martyn  to  Lydia  Grenfell 
from  Muscat ,  Arabia 

Martyn’s  budgerow,  paddled  from  the  stern,  bore 
him  down  stream  to  the  house  that  was  above 
all  others  his  Indian  home. 

4 4  Entered  the  Hooghly,”  says  his  journal  for 
November  25,  1810,  44  with  something  of  those 

sensations  with  which  I  should  come  in  sight  of 
the  white  cliffs  of  England.”  At  Aldeen  he  found 
the  Brown  children  waiting  to  convoy  him  with 
shouts  to  the  house,  and  next  morning  in  the  city 
another  long-expected  meeting  took  place  with 
friends  arrived  from  England.  Thomas  Thomason, 
Simeon’s  senior  curate,  that  good,  serene  and 
diligent  person,  had  been  inspired  by  Martyn’s 

237 


238 


Henry  Martyn 


example  to  break  up  his  home  by  the  riverside 
at  Shelf ord  and  to  set  out  in  middle  life  with  his 
calm,  methodical  wife  and  their  small  children, 
to  give  the  rest  of  his  years  to  the  service  of  India. 
Martvn,  little  if  at  all  conscious  how  far  he  had 
himself  inspired  both  Corrie  and  Thomason  to 
follow  him,  hailed  the  news  of  his  coming  with 
exultation. 

Thomason  was  indeed  a  notable  recruit.  His 
friends  had  long  smiled  at  his  habit  in  all  spare 
moments  of  pulling  out  of  his  pocket  a  portion 
of  the  Bible.  In  his  own  methodical  way  he  had 
had  his  Hebrew  Old  Testament  re-bound  into 
sections  small  enough  for  pocket  use  and  kept 
one  always  at  hand.  He  now  brought  these  years 
of  patient  study  to  the  help  of  the  translators  in 
India.  On  his  way  out  the  good  scholar  was  ship¬ 
wrecked  ;  he  rescued  each  child  in  a  sheet  and  their 
mother  in  a  counterpane,  but  every  book  that  he 
possessed  was  lost.  Martyn  found  the  family  living 
in  the  heart  of  Calcutta,  patiently  collecting  house¬ 
hold  goods  once  more,  and  Thomason  catechizing 
the  little  English  children  of  the  settlement  with 
his  own  babes — “  Fair  English  children,  all  of 
them  elegantly  dressed,  standing  round  the  desk 
and  answering  the  good  man’s  questions.” 

The  Thomasons  were  shocked  at  the  change  in 
Martyn.  “  Dear,  dear  Martyn  arrived,”  wrote  the 
wife,  “  and  we  had  the  unspeakable  delight  of 
seeing  his  face.  He  is  much  altered,  is  thin  and 
sallow,  but  he  has  the  same  loving  heart.”  He 
sat  on  the  sofa  and  picked  up  the  old  intercourse 
with  them,  even  to  the  point  when  the  steady 
Thomason  felt  it  necessary  to  prick  the  bubble 


To  Shiraz 


239 


of  Martyn’s  airy  speculations.  “  That  obstinate 
lover  of  antiquity,”  Martyn  wrote  of  him  in  a 
letter,  “  whose  potent  touch  has  dissolved  so  many 
of  my  fabrics  heretofore,  that  I  do  not  like  to  sub¬ 
mit  anything  to  him  which  is  not  proof.” 

After  that  first  long  talk  Thomason  sat  down 
to  write  to  Simeon  his  impression  of  the  friend 
so  much  his  junior,  who  had  always  been  to  him 
both  an  enigma  and  an  inspiration. 

He  is  on  hi  ■;  way  to  Arabia,  where  he  is  going  in  pursuit 
of  health  and  knowledge.  You  know  his  genius,  and 
what  gigantic  strides  he  takes  in  everything.  He  has 
some  great  plan  in  his  mind  of  which  I  am  no  competent 
judge;  but  as  far  as  I  do  understand  it,  the  object  is 
far  too  grand  for  one  short  life,  and  much  beyond  his 
feeble  and  exhausted  frame.  Feeble  it  is  indeed  !  how 
fallen  and  changed  !  But  let  us  hope  that  the  sea-air 
may  revive  him.  ...  In  all  other  respects  he  is  exactly 
the  same  as  he  was  ;  he  shines  in  all  the  dignity  of  love  ; 
and  seems  to  carry  about  him  such  a  heavenly  majesty, 
as  impre  ses  the  mind  beyond  description.  But  if  he 
talks  much,  though  in  a  low  voice,  he  sinks,  and  you  are 
reminded  of  his  being  “  dust  and  ashes.” 

The  Martyn  of  these  days  seems  to  have  cast 
a  spell  over  all  his  friends.  They  watched  him 
with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  men  who  dared  not  interfere. 
“  Can  I  then  bring  myself  to  cut  the  string  and 
let  you  go  ?  ”  wrote  David  Brown  when  the 
Arabian  plan  was  first  proposed.  “  I  confess  I 
could  not,  if  your  bodily  frame  were  strong,  and 
promised  to  last  for  half  a  century.  But  as  you 
burn  with  the  intenseness  and  rapid  blaze  of  heated 
phosphorus,  why  should  we  not  make  the  most  of 
you  ?  Your  flame  may  last  as  long,  and  perhaps 
longer,  in  Arabia,  than  in  India.” 

In  fulfilment  of  a  five-years’-old  promise  to 


240 


Henry  Martyn 


Simeon,  Martyn  had  his  portrait  painted  in  Cal¬ 
cutta.1  It  was  “  thought  a  striking  likeness,” 
but  on  seeing  it  David  Brown  remarked,  “  That 
is  not  the  Martyn  who  arrived  in  India,  it  is  Martyn 
the  recluse.”  Martyn  acknowledged  the  truth  of 
the  observation.  A  man  could  not  live  alone  with 
Sabat,  battling  with  illness,  stripped  of  every  earthly 
hope  save  the  perfecting  of  his  Gospel,  and  come  out 
from  that  seclusion  unmarked. 

He  blamed  himself.  “  It  sometimes  calls  itself 
deadness  to  the  world,”  he  said,  “  but  I  much  fear 
that  it  is  deadness  of  heart.  I  am  exempt  from 
worldly  cares  myself  and  therefore  do  not  feel 
for  others.” 

The  portrait  was  sent  home  to  the  India  House, 
and  Charles  Simeon  went  up  to  London  to  claim 
it.  His  letters  from  India  had  left  him  unprepared 
for  the  change  in  Martyn’s  face. 

It  was  opened.  ...  I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon 
it,  but  turned  away  and  went  to  a  distance,  covering 
my  face,  and  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  the  contrary, 
crying  aloud  with  anguish.  ...  In  seeing  how  much  he 
is  worn  I  am  constrained  to  call  to  my  relief  the  thought 
in  Whose  service  he  has  worn  himself  so  much.2 

On  consultation  with  the  learned  in  Calcutta 
Martyn  heard  little  but  praise  of  his  own  Hindu¬ 
stani  New  Testament,  but  Sabat ’s  work,  it  seemed, 
and  especially  his  Persian,  stood  yet  in  need  of 
polishing.  So  Martyn  determined  to  take  both 
Persian  and  Arabic  with  him,  and  to  go  first  to 
Persia.  Afterwards  he  would  travel — who  knows 
where  ?  to  Damascus  perhaps,  he  said,  for  there 

1  Now  in  the  University  Library,  Cambridge. 

*  Cams,  Life  of  Charles  Simeon ,  p.  358. 


To  Shiraz 


241 


he  might  enquire  as  to  ancient  Arabic  versions  ; 
or  perhaps  to  Baghdad  or  the  heart  of  Arabia  itself. 
But  Persia  must  come  first. 

“  All  his  imaginations  of  Persia,”  Mrs  Sherwood 
tells  us,  “  were  taken  from  the  beautiful  descrip¬ 
tions  given  by  the  poets.  He  often  spoke  of  that 
land  as  of  a  land  of  roses  and  nightingales,  of  fresh 
flowing  streams,  of  sparkling  fountains  and  of 
breezes  laden  with  perfumes.”  A  lover  of  Persian 
poetry,  and  especially  of  Sadi,  Martyn  had  cer¬ 
tainly  been  since  Cambridge  days  ;  but  he  was 
no  mere  visionary,  for  he  had  been  also  a  greedy 
reader  of  modern  travels,  such  as  Scott  Waring’s 
account  of  his  visit  to  Shiraz,  written  in  1807.1 
Lord  Minto,  the  statesman  who  had  himself  sent 
Sir  John  Malcolm  2  to  Persia,  listened  to  Martyn’s 
statement  of  the  aims  of  his  journey,  and  gave 
him  leave  to  proceed  ;  the  Armenians  of  Calcutta 
wrote  a  commendation  of  him  to  their  brethren 
in  Persia,  and  “  a  list  of  places  in  Mesopotamia, 
etc.,  where  there  were  Christians,  and  the  number 
of  them  ”  ;  and  Martyn  was  ready  to  set  out. 

But  to  find  a  ship  was  not  easy.  He  was  told 
that  he  had  best  go  to  Bombay,  and  from  Bombay 
to  Bosra  ;  but  having  at  length  found  a  coasting 
trader  bound  for  Bombay,  he  failed  to  get  a  passage. 
He  wrote  to  Corrie  : 

The  captain  of  the  ship  after  many  excuses  has  at 
last  refused  to  take  me  ;  on  the  ground  that  I  might 
try  to  convert  the  Arab  sailors,  and  so  cause  a  mutiny 
in  the  ship.  So  I  am  half  out  of  heart,  and  more  than 
half  disposed  to  go  to  the  rightabout,  and  come  back 

1  A  Tour  to  Sheeraz  by  the  Route  of  Kazroon  and  Feerozdbad,  by 
Edward  Scott  Waring,  Esq.,  of  the  Bengal  Civil  Establishment. 

a  See  page  247. 

Q 


242 


Henry  Martyn 


to  Cawnpore,  for  there  is  no  ship  to  be  heard  of  going 
to  Bombay. 

He  waited  on,  preaching  every  Sunday  sermons 
that  left  him  in  pain,  and  kept  awake  at  night  by 
a  hacking  cough.  They  gave  him  the  task  of 
preaching  for  the  Bible  Society  on  the  first  day 
of  1811.  “  Mr  Brown,  foreseeing  that  I  should 

have  to  stay  over  New  Year’s  Day,  ordered  me  to 
preach  for  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society. 
In  consequence  I  prepared  an  unwieldy  sermon, 
which  has  just  been  delivered.  None  of  the  great 
were  present.” 

The  sermon  is  a  revelation  of  the  extent  to  which 
Martyn  had  before  him  in  his  prayers  and  plans  the 
needs  of  all  India,  “from  Meerut  to  Cape  Comorin,” 
and  not  India  only.  “  Nay,”  said  that  sick  man  to 
the  godly  in  Calcutta,  “  Asia  must  be  our  care.” 

Next  week  he  left  them  and  took  ship  to  carry 
out  his  own  words,  having  obtained  a  passage  on 
the  boat  that  was  taking  Mountstuart  Elphinstone 
to  Bombay  as  the  new  British  Resident  at  Poona. 

Martyn  slipped  away  from  his  Calcutta  friends. 
“  He  suddenly  vanished  ”  out  of  their  sight  they 
said.  To  Lydia  he  explained  that  “  leaving  Cal¬ 
cutta  was  so  much  like  leaving  England  that  I 
went  on  board  my  boat  without  giving  them 
notice.” 

Without  taking  leave  of  my  too  dear  friends  in  Calcutta, 
I  went  on  board  Mr  Elphinstone’s  pinnace,  and  began 
to  drop  down  the  river. 

He  reached  the  ship  at  the  mouth  of  the  Hooghly 
in  two  days.  She  was  an  Arab  coaster,  the  pro¬ 
perty  of  a  merchant  of  Muscat,  who  ran  her  with 


To  Shiraz 


243 


a  country-bred  captain,  Mr  Kinsay  from  Madras, 
an  Arab  crew  and  an  Abyssinian  slave  as  overseer. 
No  sooner  was  Martyn  aboard  the  Ahmoody  than  he 
“  began  to  try  his  strength  ”  in  Arabic  conversation 
with  those  sailors.  But  sickness  and  fatigue  over¬ 
took  him. 

The  sea  I  ]oath  [he  wrote  to  Corrie],  I  was  scarcely 
well  any  part  of  the  voyage,  and  consequently  did 
little  but  sit  the  iive-long  day  upon  the  poop,  looking 
at  the  flying  fish,  and  surveying  the  wide  waste  of  waters 
blue. 

“  The  most  agreeable  circumstance  ”  in  this 
voyage  of  six  weeks  was,  he  said,  the  companionship 
in  “  the  great  cabin  ”  of  Mountstuart  Elphinstone, 
of  whose  “  agreeable  manners  and  classical  acquire¬ 
ments  ”  he  wrote  enthusiastically.  Throughout  life 
Elphinstone  shared  Martyn’s  love  of  the  classics. 
He  had  gained  it  as  a  small  boy  in  the  Edinburgh 
High  School,  and  in  spite  of  the  premature  breaking 
off  of  that  schooling,  his  chief  delight  wherever 
he  wandered  in  the  East  was  to  turn  to  the  Greek 
and  Latin  poets.  At  Fort  William  College  he 
added  a  love  for  Eastern  literature.  It  was  long 
since  Martyn  had  met  with  so  omnivorous  a  reader, 
and  he  vastly  relished  the  society  of  one  only  a 
few  years  older  than  himself  who  had  already  seen 
responsible  service  in  the  Moslem  border-lands 
beyond  the  fringe  of  British  India.  They  sat 
long  hours  on  the  poop,  or  went  on  shore  together 
to  walk  in  the  cinnamon  gardens  of  Ceylon  (Martyn 
sent  Lydia  a  piece  of  fragrant  bark)  canvassing  many 
questions  about  books  and  men. 

One  of  my  fellow  passengers  [he  told  Lydia]  is  Mr 
Elphinstone,  who  was  lately  ambassador  at  the  court 


244 


Henry  Marty u 


of  the  King  of  Cabul,  and  is  now  going  to  be  resident  at 
Poona,  the  capital  of  the  Mahratta  empire.  So  the 
group  is  rather  interesting. 

When  sitting  on  the  poop  Mr  Elphinstone  kindly 
entertained  me  with  information  about  India,  the 
politics  of  which  he  has  had  such  opportunities  of  making 
himself  acquainted  with. 

Mountstuart  Elphinstone  in  his  turn  enjoyed  that 
voyage,  and  wrote  to  a  friend  : 

We  have  in  Mr  Marty n  an  excellent  scholar,  and 
one  of  the  mildest,  cheerfullest,  and  pleasantest  men 
I  ever  saw.  He  is  extremely  religious  and  disputes 
about  the  faith  with  the  Nakhoda  (the  Abyssinian 
slave),  but  talks  on  all  subjects,  sacred  and  profane, 
and  makes  others  laugh  as  heartily  as  he  could  do  if 
he  were  an  infidel.  We  have  people  who  speak  twenty- 
five  languages  (not  apiece)  on  the  ship.1 

Or  again  : 

A  far  better  companion  than  I  reckoned  on,  though 
my  expectations  were  high  ...  a  man  of  good  sense 
and  taste,  and  simple  in  his  manners  and  character  and 
cheerful  in  his  conversation. 

The  coaster  crawled  round  Cape  Comorin  close 
to  the  shore,  and  Martyn,  looking  up  from  his 
Arabic,  almost  believed  himself  in  Cornwall.  He 
wrote  to  Lydia  describing  “ ‘  the  great  promontory 
of  India.” 

At  a  distance  the  green  waves  seemed  to  wash  the 
foot  of  the  mountain,  but  on  a  nearer  approach  little 
churches  were  to  be  seen,  apparently  on  the  beach,  with 
a  row  of  little  huts  on  each  side.  Was  it  these  maritime 
situations  that  recalled  to  my  mind  Perran  church  and 
town  in  the  way  to  Gurlyn ;  or  made  my  thoughts 
wander  on  the  beach  to  the  east  of  Lamorran  ?  You 
do  not  tell  me  whether  you  ever  walk  there,  and  imagine 

1  See  T.  E.  Colebrooke,  Life  of  Mountstuart  Elphinstone,  L  p.  231. 


To  Shiraz 


245 


the  billows  that  break  at  your  feet  to  have  made  their 
way  from  India. 

They  called  at  Goa  where  the  Portuguese  held 
sway,  Martyn  on  the  alert  for  any  information 
about  the  extent  of  the  Christian  faith  in  those 
parts.  But,  he  told  David  Brown, 

this  place  most  miserably  disappointed  me.  I  did 
not  care  about  churches  or  convents,  but  I  did  expect 
to  find  men,  Bishops  and  Archbishops,  learned  friars 
and  scowling  inquisitors.  Certain  it  is  that  though 
we  have  been  shown  all  the  finery  of  the  churches,  not 
a  person  have  we  seen  that  was  able  to  give  us  the  smallest 
particle  of  information. 

The  Inquisition  is  still  existing  at  Goa.  We  were 
not  admitted  as  far  as  Dr  Buchanan  was  to  the  Hall  of 
Examination.  .  .  .  The  priest  in  waiting  acknowledged 
that  they  had  some  prisoners  within  the  walls.  .  .  . 
We  were  told  that  when  the  officers  of  the  Inquisition 
touch  an  individual  and  beckon  him  away,  he  dare  not 
resist. 

Here  Martyn  stood  at  the  tomb  of  St  Francis 
Xavier  whose  life  had  inspired  him  during  his 
first  few  weeks  in  India.  It  was  characteristic 
of  him,  as  it  would  have  been  of  that  other 
apostolic  man  by  whose  grave  he  stood,  that  his 
attention  was  drawn  away  from  the  tomb  with 
its  “  paintings  and  figures  of  bronze  done  in  Italy  ” 
when  the  friar  who  guided  him  let  fall  a  chance 
word  about  “  the  grace  of  God  in  the  heart.”  In¬ 
stantly  Martyn  forgot  his  sight-seeing  and  plunged 
into  conversation  with  his  brother  in  the  faith. 

So  they  drew  near  to  Bombay  on  Martyn ’s 
thirtieth  birthday,  and  his  journal  shows  him 
turning,  as  was  his  wont,  from  the  conversation 
of  the  great  cabin  to  a  higher  communing. 


246 


Henry  Martyn 


I  would  that  all  should  adore,  but  especially  that  I 
myself  should  lie  prostrate.  As  for  self,  contemptible 
self,  I  feel  myself  saying,  let  it  be  forgotten  for  ever, 
henceforth  let  Christ  live,  let  Christ  reign,  let  Him  be 
glorified  for  ever. 

In  Bombay  he  found  himself  a  guest  at  Govern¬ 
ment  House,  and  Elphinstone  introduced  him  to 
good  company.  For  there  were  in  Bombay  two 
men  of  parts,  who  would  have  made  their  mark 
in  any  group  of  intellectuals. 

The  older  man  of  the  two.  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
had  been  in  his  young  days  a  friend  of  revolu¬ 
tion  and  author  of  Vindicice  Gallicce.  But  the 
Mackintosh  of  middle  life,  now  looked  on  as  “  the 
lost  leader  ”  by  the  men  of  drastic  political  reform, 
had  repudiated  his  early  views  in  no  uncertain 
tones.  “  I  abhor,  abjure  and  for  ever  renounce 
the  French  Revolution,  with  its  sanguinary  history, 
its  abominable  principles  and  for  ever  execrable 
leaders,”  he  wrote,  and  settled  down  to  practise 
at  the  Bar.  Martyn  found  him  as  Recorder  of 
Bombay,  consoling  himself  for  exile  with  a  library 
of  the  schoolmen  and  the  latest  works  of  foreign 
philosophy.  When  he  was  stirred  by  congenial 
society  no  one  could  resist  his  good  talk,  in  which 
a  delicious  impertinence  just  served  to  remind 
men  of  the  daring  of  his  early  views. 

Elphinstone  introduced  me  to  a  young  clergyman 
[Mackintosh  noted  in  his  journal]  called  Martyn.  He 
seems  to  be  a  mild  and  benevolent  enthusiast — a  sort 
of  character  with  which  I  am  always  half  in  love.  We 
had  the  novelty  of  grace  before  and  after  dinner,  all  the 
company  standing. 

It  is  a  half -pathetic  entry  from  a  man  who  had 


To  Shiraz 


247 


once  himself  been  among  the  enthusiasts  and  now 
sat  in  Bombay  reading  Dean  Swift  and  recording 
half-benevolent,  half-cynical  observations  on  the 
men  who  crossed  his  path.  A  week  later  his 
comment  was  a  little  less  genial : 

Mr  Martyn,  the  saint  from  Calcutta,  called  here.  He 
is  a  man  of  acuteness  and  learning  ;  his  meekness  is 
excessive,  and  gives  a  disagreeable  impression  of  effort 
to  conceal  the  passions  of  human  nature. 

Later  again  he  wrote  in  happier  tones  : 

Padre  Martyn,  the  saint,  dined  here  in  the  evening ; 
it  was  a  very  considerably  more  pleasant  evening  than 
usual ;  he  is  a  mild  and  ingenious  man.  We  had  two 
or  three  hours’  good  discussion  on  grammar  and 
metaphysics. 

So  we  look  at  the  saint  through  the  eyes  of  a 
man  of  the  world  who  “  thought  that  little  was 
to  be  apprehended  and  little  hoped  for  from  the 
exertions  of  missionaries,”  an  attitude  which  Martyn 
had  met  before. 

His  introduction  to  the  other  man  of  mark  in 
Bombay  society  was  of  greater  interest  to  Martyn, 
since  this  was  a  man  whose  name  was  a  name  to 
conjure  with  in  Persia.  Sir  John  Malcolm,  a 
soldier  turned  diplomatist,  had  twice  been  sent 
on  embassies  to  establish  British  trade  and  prestige 
in  Persia.  He  talked  Persian  fluently,  “  bribed 
like  a  king,”  scattered  presents  of  “  watches  and 
pistols  ;  mirrors  and  toothpicks ;  filagree  boxes 
and  umbrellas ;  cloths  and  muslins ;  with  an 
unlimited  supply  of  sugar,  sugar-candy  and 
chintz.”  In  Persia,  later  travellers  took  rank 
in  Persian  eyes  according  as  they  could  or  could 


248 


Henry  Martyn 


not  claim  acquaintance  with  Malcolm  Sahib. 
Martyn  found  him  in  Bombay  writing  his  history 
of  Persia  and  receiving  the  censure  of  Leadenhall 
Street  for  the  cost  of  his  missions. 

There  was  a  generous  gesture  about  everything 
that  Malcolm  did,  since  the  day  when  as  a  twelve- 
year-old  urchin  from  the  Westerkirk  parish  school, 
standing  before  the  Directors  of  the  East  India 
Company  to  demand  a  cadetship,  he  had  told  that 
august  body  that  were  he  to  meet  Hyder  Ali  he 
would  “  cut  aff  his  heid.”  He  now  gave  Martyn 
invaluable  help,  letters  of  introduction  right  and 
left,  much  Persian  information,  and  a  present  of  a 
Chaldee  missal. 

The  letter  that  Malcolm  wrote  to  the  British 
Ambassador  in  Persia  gives  one  more  glimpse  of 
Martyn  as  he  looked  to  able  men,  neither  pre¬ 
judiced  against  14  piety  ”  like  the  military  circle 
in  Cawnpore,  nor  yielding  him  the  spiritual  sym¬ 
pathy  of  the  circle  at  Aldeen.  It  is  the  last  por¬ 
trait  that  has  come  to  us  from  the  pen  of  a  fellow 
countryman. 

His  intention  is,  I  believe,  to  go  by  Shiraz,  Ispahan 
and  Kermanshah  to  Baghdad,  and  to  endeavour  on 
that  route  to  discover  some  ancient  copies  of  the  Gospel, 
which  he  and  many  other  saints  are  persuaded  lie  hid 
in  the  mountains  of  Persia.  Mr  Martyn  also  expects 
to  improve  himself  as  an  Oriental  scholar  ;  he  is  already 
an  excellent  one.  His  knowledge  of  Arabic  is  superior 
to  that  of  any  Englishman  in  India.  He  is  altogether 
a  very  learned  and  cheerful  man,  but  a  great  enthusiast 
in  his  holy  calling. 

I  have  not  hesitated  to  tell  him  that  I  thought  you 
would  require  that  he  should  act  with  great  caution, 
and  not  allow  his  zeal  to  run  away  with  him.  He  de¬ 
clares  he  will  not,  and  he  is  a  man  of  that  character  that 


To  Shiraz 


249 


I  must  believe.  I  am  satisfied  that  if  ever  you  see  him, 
you  will  be  pleased  with  him.  He  will  give  you  grace 
before  and  after  dinner,  and  admonish  such  of  your 
party  as  take  the  Lord’s  name  in  vain  ;  but  his  good 
sense  and  great  learning  will  delight  you,  whilst  his 
constant  cheerfulness  will  add  to  the  hilarity  of  your 
party. 

The  man  who  added  to  the  hilarity  of  Malcolm’s 
evening  parties  was  pursuing  his  own  course  by 
day,  for  there  is  no  confining  the  man  of  God  in 
the  bounds  of  one  social  clique. 

64  My  breath  is  not  at  all  stronger,”  he  wrote 
to  Corrie,  44  but  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  be  if  I 
could  flee  the  haunts  of  men.  At  this  place  I  am 
visited  from  morning  to  night  by  the  learned  natives, 
who  are  drawn  here  by  an  Arabic  tract,  which  I 
was  drawing  up  merely  for  Sabat  to  help  him  in 
his  book.” 

The  friends  he  made  while  waiting  in  Bombay 
for  a  ship  to  the  Persian  Gulf  were  the  usual  motley 
company.  Besides  the  learned  of  Islam  there 
was  44  a  rope-maker  from  London  who  came  and 
opened  his  heart  and  we  rejoiced  together  ”  ;  a 
Parsee  poet  (44  he  is  certainly  an  ingenious  man, 
and  possesses  one  of  the  most  agreeable  qualities 
a  disputant  can  possess,  which  is,  patience  :  he 
never  interrupted  me  ;  and  if  I  rudely  interrupted 
him,  he  was  silent  in  a  moment  ”) ;  and  a  Jew 
of  Bosra,  with  whom  he  walked  at  night  by  the 
seaside. 

Martyn  was  given  a  passage  in  a  ship  of  the 
East  India  Company’s  navy,  sent  to  cruise  in  the 
Persian  Gulf  against  marauding  Arab  pirates  from 
the  coast  of  Oman.  He  was  to  act  as  chaplain  to 
the  European  part  of  the  crew  of  the  Benares . 


250  Henry  Marty n 

_ 

In  his  journal  and  his  letters,  especially  those 
to  Lydia  and  to  Corrie,  “  our  beloved  Daniel 
in  the  north,”  we  trace  the  details  of  his  wander- 
ings.  Lydia’s  proffered  letters  had  never  reached 
him.  “  When  will  our  correspondence  be  estab¬ 
lished  ?  I  have  been  trying  to  effect  it  these  six 
years,  and  it  is  only  yet  in  train.  But  I  am  not 
yet  without  hopes  that  a  letter  in  the  beloved 
hand  will  yet  overtake  me  somewhere.” 

I  quitted  India  on  Lady  Day.  .  .  .  Smooth  and  light 
airs  left  me  at  liberty  to  pursue  my  studies  as  unin¬ 
terruptedly  as  if  I  were  on  shore  ;  and  more  so,  as  my 
companions  in  the  great  cabin,  being  sufficient  company 
for  each  other,  and  studious  and  taciturn  withal,  seldom 
break  my  repose.  Every  day,  all  day  long,  I  Hebraize. 
.  .  .  On  the  morning  of  Easter  we  saw  the  land  of 
Mekran  in  Persia. 

You  will  be  happy  to  know  that  the  murderous  pirates 
against  whom  we  were  sent,  having  received  notice  of 
our  approach,  are  all  got  out  of  the  way,  so  that  I  am 
no  longer  liable  to  be  shot  in  a  battle,  or  to  decapitation 
after  it. 

On  the  Sunday  after  Easter  the  Benares  put  into 
the  cove  of  Muscat  for  water  before  pursuing  her 
way  up  the  Gulf  to  Bushire,  and  Henry  Martyn 
set  foot  in  Arabia,  a  land,  he  said,  of  44  burning, 
barren  rocks.  We  went  through  the  bazaar,  and 
mounted  a  hill  to  look  at  it,  but  saw  nothing  but 
what  was  hideous.  The  town  and  houses  are 
more  mean  and  filthy  than  any  in  India,  and  in 
all  the  environs  of  the  place  I  counted  three  trees, 
date-trees  I  suppose.” 

The  cove  was  stifling.  Sleep  was  impossible 
during  the  hot  nights  in  shelter  of  the  rocks.  But 
Martyn  was  about  his  business. 


To  Shiraz 


251 

April  24,  1811.  Went  with  one  Englishman,  and 
two  Armenians  and  an  Arab  who  acted  as  guard  and 
guide,  to  see  a  remarkable  pass  about  a  mile  from  the 
town,  and  a  garden  planted  by  a  Hindoo,  in  a  little 
valley  beyond.  .  .  .  The  little  bit  of  green  in  this  wilder¬ 
ness  seemed  to  the  Arab  a  great  curiosity.  I  conversed 
a  good  deal  with  him,  but  particularly  with  his  African 
slave  who  was  very  intelligent  about  religion. 

The  talk,  as  so  often  happened  with  Martyn, 
proved  more  engrossing  than  the  expedition.  The 
slave  followed  him  down  to  the  landing-place  and 
“  would  not  cease  from  his  argument  till  I  left  the 
shore.” 

So  Martyn  left  Arabian  soil.  But  next  day,  the 
ship  being  still  in  the  cove, 

the  Arab  soldier  and  his  slave  came  on  board  to 
take  leave.  They  asked  to  see  the  Gospel.  The  instant 
I  gave  them  a  copy  in  Arabic,  the  poor  boy  began  to 
read,  and  carried  it  off  as  a  great  prize. 

The  1 Benares,  having  warped  out  of  the  stifling- 
cove,  was  tossed  about  for  days  by  a  north-wester, 
the  more  violent  of  the  two  prevailing  winds  that 
rush  up  or  down  the  great  funnel  of  the  Gulf. 
On  May  21st  she  came  to  Bushire,  and  Henry 
Martyn  landed  in  Persia  at  that  dilapidated  little 
port  surrounded  by  “a  wall  with  a  few  bastions 
which  might  possibly  be  a  safeguard  against  the 
predatory  incursions  of  Horse.”  1 

He  came  into  its  steamy  heat  at  the  hottest 
season  of  the  year. 

“We  were  hospitably  received  by  the  acting 
Resident.  In  the  evening  I  walked  out  by  the 
seaside  to  recollect  myself,  to  review  the  past  and 
to  look  forward  to  the  future.” 

1  Scott  Waring,  A  Tour  to  Sheeraz ,  p.  12. 


252 


Henry  Martyn 


He  at  once  ordered  a  Persian  costume  for  travel 
in  the  interior,  and  while  it  was  in  making  set 
himself,  except  when  prostrated  with  headache  by 
the  heat  of  the  city,  to  find  out  Persian  and  Arabic 
opinion  on  translations  of  the  New  Testament. 

Learned  Mohammedan  Arabs  enjoyed  Sabat’s 
Arabic  : 

I  showed  Hosyn,  an  Arab,  the  most  learned  man 
here,  a  passage  in  the  New  Testament,  according  to 
the  four  versions  of  Erpenius,  English,  Polyglot  and 
Sabat.  He  condemned  the  three  first,  but  said  im¬ 
mediately  of  Sabat’s,  “  This  is  good,  very  good.”  He 
read  out  a  chapter  in  fine  style  ;  in  short,  he  gave  it 
unqualified  commendation. 

But  learned  Persians  were  not  equally  pleased 
with  Sabat’s  work  in  their  language.  Already  his 
Persian  friend  in  Bombay  had  criticized  it  : 

He  began  about  the  versions  of  the  New  Testament, 
condemning  them  all.  I  asked  him  whether  Sabat’s 
Persian  was  not  much  superior  ?  He  opened  upon  a 
chapter,  and  pointed  out  several  undeniable  errors 
both  in  collocation  and  words,  and  laughed  at  some  of 
the  Arabic  words.  When  I  told  him  the  translator 
was  an  Arab  who  had  lived  ten  years  in  Persia,  he  said, 
an  Arab  if  he  live  there  twenty  years,  will  never  speak 
Persian  well. 

So  the  great  task  remained  yet  to  be  done,  and 
Henry  Martyn,  plunging  into  Persia,  was  deter¬ 
mined  not  to  come  forth  again  till  he  brought 
with  him  such  a  version  as  in  all  its  niceties  could 
satisfy  the  sensitive  Persian  ear. 

On  the  night  of  May  30,  1811,  his  caravan  wound 
through  the  sleeping  port  between  blind  walls  of 
mud  or  crumbling  stone  and  set  its  face  towards 
the  distant  hills.  Martyn  had  grown  a  moustache 


253 


To  Shiraz 


\ 


during  the  voyage  ;  he  now  “put  off  the  European  ” 
and  mounted  his  riding  pony  in  baggy  blue  trousers 
and  red  boots,  a  conical  cap  of  Astrakhan  and  a 
flowing  coat.  An  Armenian  servant  followed  him 
on  a  mule  and  another  mule  carried  his  books. 
For  safety  they  joined  a  caravan  of  about  thirty 
beasts  carrying  baggage  to  Sir  Gore  Ouseley,  the 
British  Ambassador,  then  at  Shiraz.  In  that  city  of 
poets  and  lettered  men,  Martyn  could  best  pursue 
his  object. 

They  travelled  by  night,  for  the  heat  of  day 
in  early  June  would  be  intolerable.  As  they  filed 
out  of  Bushire  on  to  the  sandy  plain  that  stretched 
for  ninety  miles  between  them  and  the  hills  that 
lift  the  Persian  plateau,  Martyn  felt  all  the 
romance  of  the  first  starlight  journey  with  a 
caravan. 

When  we  began  to  flag  and  grow  sleepy  and  the  kafila 
was  pretty  quiet,  one  of  the  muleteers  on  foot  began  to 
sing.  He  sang  with  a  voice  so  plaintive,  that  it  was 
impossible  not  to  have  one’s  attention  arrested.  At 
the  end  of  the  first  tune  he  paused,  and  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  tinkling  of  the  bells  attached  to  the  necks 
of  the  mules  ;  every  voice  was  hushed.  The  first  line 
was  enough  for  me.  .  ,  .  The  following  is  perhaps  the 
true  translation  : 

Think  not  that  e'er  my  heart  can  dwell 
Contented  far  from  thee  ; 

How  can  the  fresh-caught  nightingale 
Enjoy  tranquillity  ? 

Forsake  not  then  thy  friend  for  aught 
That  slanderous  tongues  can  say  ; 

The  heart  that  fixes  where  it  ought , 

No  power  can  rend  away. 

Thus  we  went  on,  and  as  often  as  the  kafila  by  their 


254 


Henry  Martyn 


dulness  and  sleepiness  seemed  to  require  it,  or  perhaps 
to  keep  himself  awake,  he  entertained  the  company 
and  himself  with  a  song.  We  met  two  or  three  other 
kafilas  taking  advantage  of  the  night  to  get  on. 

Day  caught  them  still  on  that  sweltering  plain. 
And  Martyn,  vho  had  almost  forgotten  it,  was 
forced  to  remember  for  once  that  he  was  a  sick 
man. 

• 

At  sunrise  we  came  to  our  ground  at  Ahmeda,  six 
parasangs,  and  pitched  our  little  tent  under  a  tree  : 
it  was  the  only  shelter  we  could  get.  At  first  the  heat 
was  not  greater  than  we  had  felt  it  in  India,  but  it  soon 
became  so  intense  as  to  be  quite  alarming.  When  the 
thermometer  was  above  112°,  fever  heat,  I  began  to 
lose  my  strength  fast ;  at  last  it  became  quite  intolerable. 
I  wrapped  myself  up  in  a  blanket  and  all  the  warm 
covering  I  could  get  to  defend  myself  from  the  external 
air  ;  by  which  means  the  moisture  was  kept  a  little 
longer  upon  the  body. 

But  the  thermometer  still  rising,  and  the  moisture 
of  the  body  being  quite  exhausted,  I  grew  restless  and 
thought  I  should  have  lost  my  senses.  The  thermometer 
at  last  stood  at  126°.  ...  At  last  the  fierce  sun  retired, 
and  I  crept  out  more  dead  than  alive.  It  was  then  a 
difficulty  how  I  could  proceed  on  my  journey ;  for 
besides  the  immediate  effects  of  the  heat,  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  making  up  for  the  last  night’s  want  of 
sleep,  and  had  eaten  nothing.  However,  while  they 
were  loading  the  mules,  I  got  an  hour’s  sleep,  and  set 
out,  the  muleteers  leading  my  horse,  and  Zechariah, 
my  servant,  an  Armenian,  doing  all  in  his  power  to 
encourage  me. 

So  they  rode  on  through  the  coolness  of  another 
night,  and  when  daybreak  again  found  them  on 
the  unshielded  plain  they  made  their  preparations. 

I  got  a  tattie  made  of  the  branches  of  the  date-tree, 
and  a  Persian  peasant  to  water  it ;  by  this  means  the 


To  Shiraz 


255 


thermometer  did  not  rise  above  114°.  But  what  com¬ 
pletely  secured  me  from  the  heat  was  a  large  wet  towel, 
which  I  wrapped  round  my  head  and  body,  muffling 
up  the  lower  part  in  clothes. 

The  next  day  brought  them  to  the  bottom  of 
the  mountain  wall  among  pits  of  black  naphtha 
“used  by  the  Persians  as  we  are  told  it  was  in 
(Milton’s)  hell  for  lamps,  and  occasionally  given  to 
their  camels.”  1 

We  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  at  a 
place  where  we  seemed  to  have  discovered  one  of 
Nature’s  ulcers.  A  strong  suffocating  smell  of  naphtha 
announced  something  more  than  ordinarily  foul  in  the 
neighbourhood.  We  saw  a  river  : — what  flowed  in  it, 
it  seemed  difficult  to  say,  whether  it  were  water  or 
green  oil ;  it  scarcely  moved,  and  the  stones  which  it 
laved  it  left  of  a  greyish  colour,  as  if  its  foul  touch  had 
given  them  the  leprosy. 

Little  dreamed  the  man  who  loved  the  soft  sea- 
mists  of  Cornwall  of  the  part  that  the  scarred  and 
burning  Persian  oil-fields  would  one  day  play  in 
political  and  military  history. 

Our  place  of  encampment  this  day  was  a  grove  of 
date-trees,  where  the  atmosphere,  at  sunrise,  was  ten 
times  hotter  than  the  ambient  air.  I  threw  myself 
down  on  the  burning  ground  and  slept ;  when  the  tent 
came  up  I  awoke,  as  usual,  in  a  burning  fever. 

And  now,  after  three  nights  in  the  saddle,  and 
three  sleepless  days  of  fever,  they  began  to  climb 
the  mountain  ladder  to  the  Persian  plateau. 

At  nine  in  the  evening  we  decamped.  The  ground 
and  air  were  so  insufferably  hot  that  I  could  not  travel 
without  a  wet  towel  round  my  face  and  neck.  This 

1  Scott  Waring,  A  Tour  to  Sheeraz,  p.  18. 


Henry  Martyn 


25  0 

night,  for  the  first  time,  we  began  to  ascend  the 
mountains. 

There  was  nothing  to  mark  the  road  but  the  rocks 
being  a  little  more  worn  in  one  place  than  in  another. 
Sometimes  my  horse,  which  led  the  way,  stopped  as  if 
to  consider  about  the  way  :  for  myself  I  could  not 
guess. 

He  gave  his  horse  the  rein,  and  rode  on  drunken 
with  sleep,  along  paths  that  hung  over  dizzy  pre¬ 
cipices,  and  up  tracks  where  the  travellers  behind 
cower  with  the  sense  that  the  mules  must  fall  back 
headlong  on  the  hindmost,  through  desolate  places 
where  the  moon  plays  monkey  tricks,  sometimes 
riding  serene  and  high,  and  sometimes  as  the  wild 
path  heaves  upward,  seeming  to  sail  level  with 
the  traveller’s  bridle.  Through  such  44  sublime  ” 
scenes  Martyn  dragged  himself  on,  drugged  with 
overpowering  sleep. 

My  sleepiness  and  fatigue  rendered  me  insensible  to 
everything  around  me.  At  last  we  emerged  superas 
ad  auras ,  not  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  to  go  down  again, 
but  to  a  plain,  or  upper  world. 

The  first  rung  of  the  great  ladder  was  mounted. 
44  We  rode  briskly  over  the  plain,  breathing  a  purer 
air,  and  soon  came  in  sight  of  a  fair  edifice,  built 
by  the  king  of  the  country  for  the  refreshment 
of  pilgrims.”  Here  the  thermometer  was  110°, 
tempered  for  them,  however,  by  a  load  of  ice  bought 
from  a  mountaineer  on  his  way  down  to  the  coastal 
plain. 

Next  night  they  climbed  the  second  rung  of  that 
great  ladder. 

44  We  ascended  another  range  of  mountains  and 
passed  over  a  plain  where  the  cold  was  so  piercing 


To  Shiraz 


257 


that  with  all  the  clothes  we  could  muster  we  were 
shivering.”  They  rode  on  till  eight  in  the  morning 
through  country  where  mountain  was  heaped  on 
mountain  and  stone  piled  on  stone  as  though  in 
some  battle  of  the  elder  giants.  When  Martyn 
arrived  at  Kaziroon,  “  there  seemed  to  be  a  fire 
within  my  head,  my  skin  like  a  cinder  and  the 
pulse  violent.”  Here  he  lay  all  day  in  a  summer 
house  in  a  cypress  garden  still  too  feverish  for 
sleep,  stretching  out  a  burning  hand  to  dip  it  in 
water. 

So  they  made  two  more  great  ascents,  climbing 
the  rugged  hills  crowned  with  the  greyish  green 
of  the  wild  almond  into  a  cooler  air.  On  the 
last  night  of  that  climb  “  the  cold  was  very 
severe ;  for  fear  of  falling  off  from  sleep  and 
numbness  I  walked  a  good  part  of  the  way.”  And 
now  at  last  they  found  a  place  of  rest,  never  for¬ 
gotten  by  any  traveller  who  has  made  that  ride. 

We  pitched  our  tent  in  the  vale  of  D  us  tar  j  an,  near  a 
crystal  stream,  on  the  banks  of  which  we  observed 
the  clover  and  golden  cup  :  the  whole  valley  was  one 
green  field,  in  which  large  herds  of  cattle  were  browsing. 
The  temperature  was  about  that  of  spring  in  England. 
Here  a  few  hours’  sleep  recovered  me  in  some  degree 
from  the  stupidity  in  which  I  had  been  for  some  days. 
I  awoke  with  a  light  heart  and  said,  “  He  maketh  us  to 
lie  down  in  the  green  pastures  and  leadeth  us  beside 
the  still  waters.” 

There  were  two  more  nights  of  travel  before 
Martyn  reached  his  goal,  “  gasping  for  life  under 
the  double  pressure  of  an  inward  fire  and  an  out¬ 
ward  burning  sun.”  1 

1  Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter,  Travels,  I.  p.  687. 

R 


258 


Henry  Martyn 


Sleepiness  my  old  companion  and  enemy  again  over¬ 
took  me.  I  was  in  perpetual  danger  of  falling  off  my 
horse,  till  at  last  I  pushed  on  to  a  considerable  distance, 
planted  my  back  against  a  wall,  and  slept  I  know  not 
how  long  till  the  good  muleteer  came  up  and  gently 
waked  me. 

On  Sunday,  June  9th,  they  reached  Shiraz  the 
many-gated,  set  white  upon  her  plain.  They 
halted  in  a  garden  outside  the  walls,  and  next 
day  rode  in  through  the  blind  narrow  streets  to 
the  house  of  a  leading  citizen,  Jaffir  Ali  Khan, 
to  whom  Martyn  had  letters  bearing  the  magic 
signature  of  Malcolm. 

The  house  was  thrown  open  to  him. 

After  the  long  and  tedious  ceremony  of  coffee  and  pipes, 
breakfast  made  its  appearance  on  two  large  trays : 
curry,  pilaws,  various  sweets  cooled  with  snow  and 
perfumed  with  rose-water,  were  served  in  great  pro¬ 
fusion  in  China  plates  and  basins,  a  few  wooden  spoons 
beautifully  carved  ;  but  being  in  a  Persian  dress,  and 
on  the  ground,  I  thought  it  high  time  to  throw  off  the 
European,  and  so  ate  with  my  hands. 

The  rich  and  learned  Jaffir  placed  a  room  at 
Martyn’s  disposal,  and  here  he  unpacked  such 
books  as  he  had.  His  host  had  been  once  “  a 
great  sayer  of  prayers,  and  had  regularly  passed 
every  afternoon  for  fourteen  years  in  cursing  the 
followers  of  Omar  according  to  the  prescribed 
form ;  but  perceiving  that  these  zealous  maledic¬ 
tions  brought  no  blessings  on  himself,  he  left  them 
off  and  now  just  prays  for  form’s  sake.  His  wife 
[a  veiled  lady  whom  Martyn  never  met  while  living 
in  her  husband’s  house]  says  her  prayers  regu¬ 
larly  five  times  a  day,  and  is  always  up  before 
sunrise  for  the  first  prayer.”  But  her  husband 


To  Shiraz 


259 


devoted  himself  to  the  pleasures  of  wealth  and 
literature ;  excursions  to  gardens  beside  living 
streams,  and  the  company  of  poets. 

Jaffir  Ali  Khan  heard  with  the  interest  of  a 
lettered  man  of  his  visitor’s  anxiety  for  a  true 
and  beautiful  translation  of  the  Gospel,  and  he 
introduced  a  brother-in-law  who  spoke  “  the  purest 
dialect  of  the  Persian  ”  and  offered  his  assistance 
in  making  a  new  version.  “  It  was  an  offer  I  could 
not  refuse,”  said  Martyn,  and  he  at  once  prepared 
for  months  of  virtual  solitude,  “  entrenched  in 
one  of  Persia’s  valleys  ”  till  the  great  task  should 
be  done. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


A  YEAR  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 

Yet  with  the  Friend  are  we,  and  the  Light  of  the  Eye,  and  the 
Path  of  Expectation. — Shamsu-d-Din  Muhammad  i  Hafiz. 

The  least  of  His  works  it  is  refreshing  to  look  at.  A  dried  leaf  or 
a  straw  makes  me  feel  myself  in  good  company.  ...  If  I  live  to 
complete  the  Persian  New  Testament,  my  life  after  that  will  be  of 
less  importance.  But  whether  life  or  death  be  mine,  may  Christ 
be  magnified  in  me.  If  He  has  work  for  me  to  do  I  cannot  die. — 
Martyn’s  Journal  at  Shiraz ,  January  1,  1812. 

Henry  Martyn,  44  wearing  agreeably  to  custom 
a  pair  of  red  cloth  stockings  with  green  high- 
heeled  shoes,”  went  to  the  palace  where  a  hundred 
fountains  played,  and  made  his  bow  to  the  Prince  - 
Governor  of  Shiraz,  in  whose  city  he  was  now  a 
guest. 

On  first  reaching  Shiraz  he  had  found  Sir  Gore 
Ouseley,  44  Ambassador  Extraordinary  and  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  ”  to  the  Shah’s  court,  encamped 
in  the  plain  outside  the  city  walls.  When  camp 
was  struck  and  the  ambassador  and  his  suite  moved 
on  towards  Tabriz,  Martyn  was  left  alone  in  that 
yet  mediaeval  Shiraz  where  the  Prince-Governor 
was  an  autocratic  tyrant  ordering  the  bastinado, 
where  city  gates  were  closed  at  sunset,  where  the 
Vizier  sent  a  train  of  mules  laden  with  fruit  as  a 
compliment  to  the  stranger,  and  where  men,  sipping 
sherbet  cooled  with  snow,  recited  the  verses  of 
Sadi  or  of  Hafiz,  44  a  poetry  which  in  its  endless 
260 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


261 


yet  graceful  handling  of  the  same  overmastering 
ideas,  has  all  the  fantastic  wealth  of  woven 
traceries  and  colours  burnt  in  glass,  of  the  purple 
and  gold  and  crimson  shining  in  the  holy  place 
that  characterize  the  art  of  the  thirteenth 
century.”  1 

Martyn,  son  of  another  age  and  world,  knew  in 
Shiraz  the  loneliness  of  a  crowd. 

After  much  deliberation  [he  wrote  to  David  Brown] 
I  have  determined  to  remain  here  six  months.  From 
all  that  I  can  collect  there  appears  no  probability  of  our 
ever  having  a  good  translation  made  out  of  Persia. 
The  men  of  Shiraz  propose  to  translate  the  New  Testa¬ 
ment  with  me.  Can  I  refuse  to  stay  ? 

Behold  me,  therefore,  in  the  Athens  of  Fars,  the 
haunt  of  the  Persian  man.  Beneath  are  the  ashes  of 
Hafiz  and  Sadi ;  above,  green  gardens  and  running 
waters,  roses  and  nightingales.  How  gladly  would  I 
give  Shiraz  for  Aldeen  ! 

Now,  good  Sir,  seeing  that  I  am  to  remain  six 
months  in  captivity,  comfort  me  with  a  letter  now  and 
then. 

I  am  often  tempted  to  get  away  from  this  prison,  .  .  . 
but  placing  myself  twenty  years  on  in  time,  I  say  why 
could  not  I  stay  at  Shiraz  long  enough  to  get  a  New 
Testament  done  there,  even  if  I  had  been  detained 
there  on  that  account  three  or  six  years  ?  What  work 
of  equal  importance  can  ever  come  from  me  ? 

The  story  of  that  sojourn  has  to  be  pieced 
together  from  Martyn’s  letters  and  journal.  Letter 
after  letter  he  sent  home  by  caravan  to  the  coast 
or  by  Tartar  courier  to  Constantinople,  but  none 
yet  reached  him  from  Cornwall,  and  the  Indian 
packets  also  were  mysteriously  delayed. 

1  Quarterly  Review,  January  1892,  on  Wilberforce  Clarke’s  transla¬ 
tion  of  the  Divan  of  Hafiz. 


262 


Henry  Martyn 


Since  ten  months  [he  told  Lydia]  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  any  one  person  whom  I  love.  I  read  your  letters 
incessantly,  and  try  to  find  out  something  new,  as  I 
generally  do,  but  I  begin  to  look  with  pain  at  the  distant 
date  of  the  last.  ...  I  try  to  live  on  from  day  to 
day  happy  in  His  love  and  care. 

He  wrote  to  Lydia,  to  David  Brown  and  to 
Corrie  long  letters  that  have  to  be  searched  before 
they  yield  those  little  details  which  give  the  picture 
of  daily  life.  For  the  letters  are  swallowed  up  with 
the  one  supreme  interest  of  his  task.  When  at 
length  an  Indian  packet  reached  him,  a  Persian 
friend  with  unquenchable  curiosity  about  the 
foreigner  was  anxious  to  know  “  in  what  way  he 
corresponded.”  “  He  made  me  read  Mr  Brown’s 
letter  to  me,”  says  Martyn,  “  and  mine  to  Corrie. 
He  took  care  to  let  his  friends  know  that  we  wrote 
nothing  about  our  own  affairs  :  it  was  all  about 
translations  and  the  cause  of  Christ.  With  this 
he  was  delighted.” 

The  Journal  too,  once  full  of  minute  and  delicate 
studies  in  conscience,  becomes  now  a  notebook  of 
the  progress  of  translation  and  of  solitary  witness 
to  the  faith.  There  are  no  longer  breathings  after 
Brainerd  ;  the  man  stands  alone  with  Christ.  The 
Martyn  that  moves  among  the  doctors  of  Shiraz 
is  clothed  with  an  almost  magical  calm,  with  the 
serenity  of  a  man  who  has  forgotten  himself  in 
the  service  of  a  Greater. 

He  set  up  housekeeping  in  the  room  allotted  to 
him  by  his  host,  with  his  talkative  Armenian  servant 
to  do  the  foraging. 

Victuals  are  cheap  enough  .  .  .  such  a  country  for 
fruit  I  had  no  conception  of.  I  have  a  fine  horse  which 
I  bought  for  less  than  a  hundred  rupees,  on  which  I 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


263 


ride  every  morning  round  the  walls.  My  vain  servant 
Zechariah,  anxious  that  his  master  should  appear  like 
an  ameer,  furnished  the  horse  with  a  saddle,  or  rather  a 
pillion  which  fairly  covers  his  whole  back  ;  it  has  all 
the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  but  yellow  is  predominant, 
and  from  it  hang  down  four  large  tassels  also  yellow. 
But  all  my  finery  does  not  defend  me  from  the 
boys.  Some  cry  out  “  Ho  !  Russ  !  ”  others  cry  out 
“  Feringhee  !  ”  One  day  a  brickbat  was  flung  a  me  and 
hit  me  in  the  hip.  They  continued  throwing  stones  at  me 
every  day  until  the  Governor  sent  an  order  to  all  the 
gates  that  if  anyone  insulted  me  he  should  be  bastinadoed, 
and  the  next  day  came  himself  in  state  to  pay  me  a  visit. 

Most  of  the  day  I  am  about  the  translation.  I  am 
so  incessantly  occupied  with  visitors  and  my  work  that 
I  have  hardly  a  moment  for  myself.  Even  from  these 
Mohammedans  I  hear  remarks  that  do  me  good  ;  to-day 
for  instance  my  assistant  observed,  “  How  He  loved 
those  twelve  persons.”  “Yes,”  said  I,  “and  not  those 
twelve  only.” 

Imagine  a  pale  person  seated  on  a  Persian  carpet, 
in  a  room  without  table  or  chair,  with  a  pair  of  formidable 
mustachios,  and  habited  as  a  Persian,  and  you  see  me. 
I  go  on  as  usual  singing  hymns  at  night  over  my  milk 
and  water,  for  tea  I  have  none  though  I  much  want  it. 
I  am  with  you  in  spirit  almost  every  evening. 

The  long  covered  bazaar  of  Shiraz  (“  like  Exeter 
Change  ”)  was  soon  seething  with  rumour  about 
the  new  foreigner  who  lodged  with  the  wealthy 
and  respected  Jaffir  Ali  Khan,  and  who  carried 
letters  from  that  prince  of  men,  the  liberal  Malcolm 
Sahib.  “  This  is  a  man  of  religion,  and  his  coming 
here  is  that  he  may  embrace  the  true  faith  and 
turn  Moslem,”  said  some.  “  Nay,”  replied  the 
politically  minded,  “  but  he  will  pretend  to  turn 
Moslem,  and  under  that  pretence  he  will  bring 
here  more  and  more  English,  perhaps  five  thousand 
men  from  Hindostan,  and  at  last  seize  the  place.” 


264 


Henry  Martyn 


Those  who  had  spoken  with  Martyn  called  him  a 
man  of  God  and  a  doctor  of  religion.  “  A  beard¬ 
less  boy,”  said  others,  “  how  should  he  know  any¬ 
thing  of  the  faith  ?  ”  And  to  settle  the  question, 
the  learned  of  Shiraz  came  one  by  one  to  sip 
coffee  and  break  a  lance  with  the  stranger.  They 
never  found  him  inaccessible.  His  list  of  visitors, 
as  in  all  places  where  he  dwelt,  was  very  various.1 

The  prince’s  secretary  who  is  considered  to  be  the 
best  prose-writer  in  Shiraz  called  upon  us. 

Two  young  men  from  the  college,  full  of  zeal  and 
logic,  came  this  morning  to  try  me  with  hard  questions. 

Before  I  had  taken  my  breakfast  the  younger  of  the 
youths  came,  and  forced  me  into  a  conversation.  As 
soon  as  he  heard  the  word  “  Father  ”  in  the  translation 
used  for  14  God,”  he  laughed  and  went  away. 

Abdulghanee  the  Jew  Mahometan  came  to  prove  that 
he  had  found  Mahomet  in  the  Pentateuch.  .  .  He  con¬ 
cluded  by  saying  that  he  must  come  every  day  and  either 
make  me  a  Mussulman  or  become  himself  a  Christian. 

Another  day  it  was  a  Persian  General  who  came 
out  of  respect  to  a  friend  of  Malcolm  Sahib,  or  an 
Armenian  priest  who  called  to  see  his  brother  of  the 
west,  or  the  “  chief  of  a  tribe  which  consists  of 
twenty  thousand  families,”  or  an  Indian  moonshee 
who  recited  his  own  verses  while  the  Persians 
secretly  derided  his  foreign  accent. 

The  interviews  were  apt  to  terminate  in  dead¬ 
lock,  as  host  and  visitor  reached  one  crucial  point. 

The  Moollah  Aga  Mahommed  Hasan,  a  very  sensible, 
candid  man,  asked  a  good  deal  about  the  European 
philosophy,  particularly  what  we  did  in  metaphysics. 
He  has  nothing  to  find  fault  with  in  Christianity,  except 
the  Divinity  of  Christ.  It  is  this  doctrine  that  exposes 
me  to  the  contempt  of  the  learned  Mahometans. 

1  For  the  story  of  one  of  these  visitors  which  came  to  light  half  a 
century  later,  see  note  on  p.  298. 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


265 


Martyn’s  serenity,  his  friends  soon  learnt,  was 
never  the  calm  of  an  unfeeling  deadness.  They 
could  touch  him  to  the  quick  by  anything  that 
concerned  the  honour  of  his  Lord. 

I 

Mirza  Seid  Ali  told  me  of  a  distich  made  by  his  friend 
in  honour  of  a  victory  over  the  Russians.  The  sentiment 
was  that  Prince  Abbas  Mirza  had  killed  so  many 
Christians  that  Christ  from  the  fourth  heaven  took 
hold  of  Mahomet’s  skirt  to  entreat  him  to  desist.  I  was 
cut  to  the  soul  at  this  blasphemy.  Mirza  Seid  Ali 
perceived  that  I  was  considerably  disordered  and  asked 
what  it  was  that  was  so  offensive  ?  I  told  him  that 
44  I  could  not  endure  existence  if  Jesus  was  not  glorified  ; 
it  would  be  hell  to  me,  if  He  were  to  be  always  thus 
dishonoured.”  He  was  astonished  and  again  asked 
44  Why  ?  ”  44  If  any  one  pluck  out  your  eyes,”  I  replied, 

44  there  is  no  saying  why  you  feel  pain  ; — it  is  feeling. 
It  is  because  I  am  one  with  Christ  that  I  am  thus 
dreadfully  wounded.” 

In  spite  of  the  interruptions  of  garrulous  callers, 
the  beloved  work  went  on  apace.  Sabat’s  transla¬ 
tion,  with  its  fondness  for  fine  words,  was  found 
almost  useless. 

The  king  has  signified  that  it  is  his  wish  that  as  little 
Arabic  as  possible  may  be  employed  in  the  papers  pre¬ 
sented  to  him.  So  that  simple  Persian  is  likely  to  become 
more  and  more  fashionable.  This  is  a  change  favourable 
certainly  to  our  glorious  cause.  To  the  poor  the  Gospel 
will  be  preached.  We  began  our  work  with  the  Gospel 
of  St  John,  and  five  chapters  are  put  out  of  hand.  It 
is  likely  to  be  the  simplest  thing  imaginable  ;  and  I 
daresay  the  pedantic  Arab  will  turn  up  his  nose  at  it ; 
but  what  the  men  of  Shiraz  approve,  who  can  gainsay  ? 

During  August  Martyn’s  host,  44  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  living  always  in  a  walled  town,”  pitched 
a  tent  for  him  in  a  garden  in  the  suburbs,  where 
he  found  tranquillity,  44  living  amidst  clusters  of 


266 


Henry  Martyn 


grapes  by  a  clear  stream.”  Here  under  an  orange 
tree,  with  greater  freedom  from  interruption,  he 
sat  with  Mirza  Seid  Ali  hour  after  hour  at  the 
translation,  until  the  cold  at  night  drove  him  back 
to  the  shelter  of  the  city. 

The  man  who  thus  spent  long  hours  with  Martyn 
had  escaped  from  the  Shiah  Islam  of  orthodox 
Persia  to  Sufi  mysticism.  But  in  nothing  had  he 
gone  very  deep.  He  was  a  man  of  facile  intelli¬ 
gence,  who  told  his  friends  that  it  was  better  to 
gain  information  about  the  faith  of  the  Christians 
than  to  loiter  away  the  year  in  the  garden. 

From  him  Martyn  tried  patiently  to  understand 
the  Sufi  beliefs  ;  but  he  was  met  by  endless 
meandering  discourses  about  the  unity  of  all  being, 
from  one  who  was  himself  but  a  beginner  in  the 
Sufi  way.  44  I  crme  to  nothing  like  a  clear  under¬ 
standing  of  the  nature  of  it,”  Martyn  confessed  at 
the  end  of  the  explanations. 

The  facile  shallowness  of  the  man  came  out  in 
his  comments  on  the  New  Testament : 

Mirza  Seid  Ali  read  some  verses  of  St  Paul  which  he 
condescended  to  praise,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  be 
more  offensive  to  me  than  if  he  had  treated  them  with 
contempt.  He  observed  that  Paul  had  not  written  ill 
but  something  like  a  good  reasoner. 

There  is  another  circumstance  that  gained  Paul  im¬ 
portance  in  the  eyes  of  Mirza  Seid  Ali,  which  is  that  he 
speaks  of  Mark  and  Luke  as  his  servants. 

Can  you  give  me  a  proof  (said  he)  of  Christianity, 
that  I  may  either  believe  or  not  believe — a  proof  like 
that  of  one  of  the  theorems  of  Euclid  ? 

Yet  Mirza  Seid  Ali  had  his  deeper  moments. 
“You  never  heard  me  speak  lightly  of  Jesus,”  he 
told  Martyn  ;  “  no,  there  is  something  so  awfully 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


267 


pure  about  Him  that  nothing  is  to  be  said.”  He 
grew  troubled  as  his  intercourse  with  the  saint 
grew  deeper,  and  said  “  he  did  not  know  what  to 
do  to  have  his  mind  made  up  about  religion.  Of 
all  the  religions  Christ’s  was  the  best,  but  whether 
to  prefer  this  to  Soofeism  he  could  not  tell.” 

In  such  disturbance  of  mind  he  decided  to  take 
Martyn  to  meet  the  greatest  religious  leader  and 
saint  of  his  acquaintance,  the  Sufi  master  at  whose 
feet  he  sat  with  reverential  awe,  and  to  watch 
the  result  of  the  contact.  It  was  a  strange  and 
almost  silent  interview,  when  Martyn,  no  stranger 
himself  to  the  communion  of  the  Christian  mystic, 
was  ushered  into  the  courtyard  of  Mirza  Abul 
Casim,  “  one  of  the  most  renowned  Soofis  in  all 
Persia.” 

We  found  several  persons  sitting  in  an  open  court, 
in  which  a  few  greens  and  flowers  were  placed  ;  the 
master  was  in  a  corner.  He  was  a  very  fresh-looking 
old  man  with  a  silver  beard.  I  was  surprised  to  observe 
the  downcast  and  sorrowful  looks  of  the  assembly,  and 
still  more  at  the  silence  which  reigned. 

Martyn  sat  on  the  ground  among  the  pupils 
of  the  sage,  Seid  Ali  whispering  in  his  ear,  “  It 
is  the  custom  here  to  think  much  and  speak 
little.”  After  a  considerable  pause  he  ventured 
to  ask  the  teacher,  “What  were  his  feelings  at  the 
prospect  of  death  :  hope,  or  fear,  or  neither  ?  ” 

“  Neither,”  said  he,  “  pleasure  and  pain  are  both 
alike.” 

I  asked,  “  Whether  he  had  obtained  this  apathy  ?  ” 

He  said  “  No.” 

“  Why  do  you  think  it  attainable  ?  ” 

He  could  not  tell. 

“  Why  do  you  think  that  pleasure  and  pain  are  not 

I 


268  Henry  Martyn 

i 

the  same  ?  ”  said  Seid  Ali,  taking  the  part  of  his  silent 
teacher. 

44  Because,”  said  I,  44 1  have  the  evidence  of  my  senses 
for  it.  And  you  also  act  as  if  there  was  a  difference. 
Why  do  you  eat  but  that  you  fear  pain  ?  ” 

With  that  brief  colloquy  they  relapsed  again 
into  silence,  and  the  sages  sat  unmoved  until 
Martyn  came  away,  his  heart  yearning  over  a 
young  disciple  whom  he  had  seen  preparing  the 
teacher’s  pipe  with  great  humility,  and  who  had 
incurred  an  orthodox  father’s  wrath  and  left  all 
to  find  happiness  in  mystic  contemplation. 

From  the  day  of  that  visit  followers  of  the 
mystic  way,  among  them  the  young  disciple, 
began  to  steal  into  Martyn’s  rooms  under  the 
sympathetic  eye  of  his  host. 

44 1  begin  now  to  have  some  notion  of  Soofeism,” 
Martyn  wrote.  44  The  first  principle  is  this  :  not¬ 
withstanding  the  good  and  evil,  pleasure  and  pain 
that  is  in  the  world,  God  is  not  affected  by  it.  He 
is  perfectly  happy  with  it  all ;  if  therefore  we  can 
become  like  God  we  shall  also  be  perfectly  happy 
in  every  possible  condition.  This  then  is  salvation.” 

When  they  spun  interminable  theories  Martyn 
was  very  frank.  44  There  you  sit,”  he  told  Seid 
Ali,  44  and  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  ask  whether 
God  has  said  anything  or  not.  No  :  that  is  too 
easy  and  direct  a  way  of  coming  at  the  truth.  I 
compare  you  to  spiders,  who  weave  their  house 
of  defence  out  of  .  their  own  bowels,  or  to  a  set  of 
people  who  are  groping  for  a  light  in  broad  day.” 

Yet  Sufism  as  he  saw  it  gave  him  hope  for  the 
spiritual  future  of  Persia. 

Vast  numbers  secretly  hate  and  despise  the  super- 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


269 


stition  imposed  on  them  [he  wrote],  and  as  many  of 
them  as  have  heard  the  gospel  approve  it,  but  they  dare 
not  hazard  their  lives  for  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 
These  Soofis  are  quite  the  Methodists  of  the  east.  From 
these  you  will  perceive  the  first  Persian  Church  will  be 
formed,  judging  after  the  manner  of  men. 

During  the  month  of  Ramadan,  when  orthodox 
Moslems  fast  by  day  and  feast  by  night,  Martyn 
was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  silent  sage  him¬ 
self.  He  conformed  outwardly  to  Islam  so  far 
as  was  necessary  to  avoid  shame  and  punishment ; 
but  at  heart  he  was  a  rebel,  and  he  came  now7  to 
ask  Martyn  for  wine,  secure  that  in  the  Christian’s 
room  he  would  not  be  betrayed  for  breaking  the 
regulations  he  despised. 

“  I  plied  him  with  questions  innumerable,”  wrote 
Martyn,  “  but  the  weary  old  man  had  no  heart  for 
discussion.” 

Laying  aside  his  turban,  he  put  on  his  nightcap  and 
soon  fell  asleep  upon  the  carpet.  Whilst  he  lay  there, 
his  disciples  came,  but  would  not  believe  when  I  told 
them  who  was  there,  till  they  came  and  saw  the  sage 
asleep.  When  he  awoke,  they  came  in,  and  seated 
themselves  at  the  greatest  possible  distance,  and  were 
all  as  still  as  a  church. 

So  the  poor  old  man  awoke  from  his  brief  com¬ 
fort  of  wine  and  sleep  to  find  himself  once  more 
a  saintly  demi-god.  “  The  real  state  of  this  man 
seems  to  be  despair,”  wrote  Martyn.  “  Poor  soul, 
he  is  sadly  bewildered.” 

When  winter  came  and  the  translators  wrapped 
sheepskins  round  them  as  they  sat  at  work,  Martyn 
made  his  Christmas  feast,  and  bade  to  it  his 
brethren  of  the  Armenian  Church,  ignorant  and  per¬ 
secuted,  sewing  patches  on  to  their  new  coats  for 


270 


Henry  Martyn 


fear  they  should  be  taken  from  them  by  Moslem 
neighbours.  He  also  bade  the  Sufi  sage  and  all 
his  following  to  celebrate  the  birth  of  One  whom 
wise  men  from  the  east  had  worshipped.  “  God 
will  guide  whom  He  will,”  the  poor  old  man  was 
heard  to  mutter  into  his  snowy  beard  ;  but  not 
another  word  did  he  vouchsafe  at  that  strange 
Christmas  feast. 

So  Martyn  reached  out  towards  friendship  with 
these  heretics  and  mystics,  for  their  sakes  breaking 
through  the  shy,  proud  reserve  of  the  Britisher, 
and  laying  before  them  all  that  he  had,  even  his 
very  soul.  44  I  am  sometimes  led  on  by  the 
Persians,”  he  said,  44  to  tell  them  all  I  know  of  the 
very  recesses  of  the  sanctuary,  and  these  are  the 
things  that  interest  them.” 

But  long  before  Christmas  time  he  had  awakened 
hostility  amongst  the  orthodox,  and  found  himself 
called  on  to  defend  the  faith  before  the  doctors 
of  Persian  Islam.  “  I  am  in  the  midst  of  enemies,” 
he  wrote,  44  who  argue  against  the  truth  with  un¬ 
common  subtlety.” 

So  great  was  the  stir  in  the  city  from  the  presence 
of  the  young  Frankish  teacher  that  the  authorities 
felt  it  necessary  to  assert  the  true  and  only  faith. 

A  defence  of  Islam  was  prepared,  which  in  the 
eyes  of  the  learned  of  Shiraz  outweighed  all  former 
apologies — 44  a  book  which  is  to  silence  me  for 
ever,”  Martyn  said.  This  was  the  work  of  Mirza 
Ibrahim,  a  majestic  and  benevolent  old  man,  44  Pre¬ 
ceptor  of  all  the  mullahs,”  whose  manner  recalls 
the  traditions  of  the  great  mediaeval  doctors,  as 
he  meets  an  opponent  with  courteous  subtlety. 

When  this  work  was  put  into  Martyn’s  hands 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


271 


there  fell  to  him,  single-handed  and  almost  without 
books,  the  task  as  knight  of  Christ  of  meeting  the 
champion  of  Persian  theology.  He  replied  in  a 
tract,  the  first  of  a  series,  in  which  he  shows  an 
astonishing  mastery  of  the  whole  controversy, 
'  and  in  which  he  and  his  opponent  throughout  pre¬ 
served  high  courtesy.1 

But  though  Martyn  and  Mirza  Ibrahim  might 
be  chivalrous  opponents,  there  were  other  less 
courtly  antagonists. 

As  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  this  dull  place  to  take 
the  attention  of  the  people,  no  trade,  manufactures 
or  news,  every  event  at  all  novel  is  interesting  to  them. 
You  may  conceive  therefore  what  a  sensation  was  pro¬ 
duced.  Before  five  people  had  seen  what  I  wrote, 
defences  of  Islam  swarmed  into  being  from  all  the  Moulwee 
maggots  of  the  place,  but  the  more  judicious  men  were 
ashamed  to  let  me  see  them. 

One  of  the  royal  princes  was  heard  to  growl  that 
the  proper  reply  to  Martyn’s  writings  was  the 
sword.  But  he  remained  serene  and  unmoved 
among  them.  “  If  Christ  has  work  for  me  to  do, 
I  cannot  die,”  he  said,  and  never  shirked  encounters 
where  he  might  be  called  on  to  confess  his  faith. 
Soon  all  Shiraz  was  talking  of  a  dinner  party  at 
which  the  great  Professor  of  Canon  Law  himself 
had  disputed  with  the  stranger. 

He  invited  us  to  dinner.  About  eight  o’clock  at 
night  we  went.  [October  had  come  and  with  it  the 
Moslem  month  of  Ramadan,  when  eating  by  day  is 
forbidden.]  We  entered  a  fine  court,  where  was  a  pond, 
and  by  the  side  of  it  a  platform  eight  feet  high,  covered 
with  carpets.  Here  sat  the  Moojtahid  in  state.  The 
Professor  seated  Seid  Ali  on  his  right  hand  and  me  on 

1  The  whole  controversy  was  preserved  in  English,  and  published 
by  Dr  Lee,  the  Cambridge  Professor  of  Arabic,  after  Martyn’s  death. 


272 


Henry  Martyn 


his  left.  The  swarthy  obesity  of  the  little  personage 
led  me  to  suppose  that  he  had  paid  more  attention  to 
cooking  than  to  science.  But  when  he  began  to  speak, 
I  saw  reason  enough  for  his  being  so  much  admired. 
The  substance  of  his  speech  was  flimsy  enough  ;  but 
he  spoke  with  uncommon  fluency  and  clearness.  He 
talked  for  a  full  hour  about  the  soul.  At  length  after 
clearing  his  way  for  miles  around,  he  said,  that  philos¬ 
ophers  had  proved  that  a  single  being  could  produce 
but  a  single  being ;  that  the  first  thing  God  had  created 
was  Wisdom.  .  .  . 

And  so  on — a  winding  tissue  which  Martyn,  as  he 
sat  in  silence  on  the  many-coloured  carpet,  had 
no  desire  to  call  in  question,  being  anxious  for 
no  useless  skirmishes  among  outworks. 

The  Professor  at  the  close  of  one  of  his  long  speeches 
said  to  me,  “You  see  how  much  there  is  to  be  said  on 
these  subjects  ;  several  visits  will  be  necessary  ;  we  must 
come  to  the  point  by  degrees.”  Perceiving  how  much  he 
dreaded  a  close  discussion,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurry 
him,  but  let  him  talk  on. 

But  other  listeners  were  anxious  for  the  clash 
of  arms,  and  urged  Martyn  to  bring  the  Professor 
to  grips.  He  did  at  length  respectfully  urge  the 
great  lawyer  to  oblige  the  company  with  66  some¬ 
thing  about  Islam,”  and  so  drew  forth  a  few  magis¬ 
terial  statements. 

“  The  Jesus  we  acknowledge,”  said  he  with  a 
contemptuous  smile,  “  is  one  who  bore  testimony 
to  Muhammad,  not  your  Jesus  whom  you  call 
God.” 

After  this  the  Koran  was  mentioned,  but  as  the 
company  began  to  thin  and  the  great  man  had  not  a 
sufficient  audience,  he  did  not  seem  to  think  it  worth 
while  to  notice  my  objections. 

It  was  midnight  when  dinner  was  brought  in  :  it  was 


A  Year  among  the  Doctors 


27  2 


a  sullen  meal.  The  great  man  was  silent ;  and  I  was 
sleepy. 

So  quite  alone  he  witnessed  to  the  faith.  There 
is  a  story,  perhaps  apocryphal,  of  Martyn  when 
he  went  to  sit  under  an  awning  in  the  Vizier’s 
courtyard  and  witness  the  Moslem  Passion  Play 
of  the  death  of  Hussein.  The  drama  lasted  ten  days 
and  was  played  before  an  audience  that  sobbed 
aloud.  The  story  has  it  that  when  a  scene  was 
reached  in  which  a  Frankish  ambassador  was 
made  to  step  forward  and  implore  pardon  for  the 
victims,  the  actor  knew  no  Frankish  words  to  say 
except  a  few  round  English  curses  picked  up  from 
travellers.  Martyn,  stung  to  the  heart  at  this, 
leapt  on  to  the  primitive  stage,  and  seizing  the 
actor,  taught  him  to  say  the  Lord’s  Prayer. 

The  story  may  be  apocryphal ; 1 * * * S  if  so,  like  many 
legends  it  has  spiritual  truth,  being  faithful  to 
the  daring  and  the  impetuosity  of  Martyn’s  soli¬ 
tary  witness. 

On  the  24th  of  February  the  New  Testament 
was  finished.  Martyn  waited  for  nothing  but  the 
scribing  of  some  gorgeous  copies  for  the  hands  of 
Persian  royalty,  before  setting  out  once  more  on 
pilgrimage.  They  could  hardly  let  him  go.  They 
took  him  out  to  a  garden  and  seated  him  on  a  bed 

1  Yet  Martyn  several  times  did  go  to  martyr-plays  in  Shiraz,  and 
we  know  that  he  went  to  the  play  at  the  Vizier’s  in  January  1812. 
Curiously  enough,  as  E.  G.  Browne  was  sitting  in  a  Persian  house  in 

1892,  his  host,  speaking  of  a  similar  part  allotted  to  a  Frankish 
ambassador  in  some  recent  martyr-plays,  said,  “  How  I  wish  you  had 

been  here  a  little  earlier,  for  then  we  could  have  borrowed  your  hats  and 
clothes  for  the  Firangis,  and  indeed  you  might  even  have  taught  us 
some  words  of  your  language  to  put  in  the  mouths  of  the  actors  who 

personated  them.” — E.  G.  Browne,  A  Year  among  the  Persians. 

S 


274 


Henry  Martyn 


of  roses,  and  made  him  read  them  the  Bible  history 
for  hours  at  a  time.  “  Their  love  seemed  to  in¬ 
crease,”  he  said,  as  the  time  of  his  departure  drew 
near.  One  of  them  who  had  seen  Martyn ’s  transla¬ 
tion  of  St  Matthew,  recited  to  his  friends  the  story 
'of  the  Passion  of  the  Lord.  “The  notes  of  the 
nightingales  warbling  around,”  said  Martyn,  “  were 
not  so  sweet  to  me  as  this  discourse  from  the 
Persian.” 

Just  before  he  quitted  Shiraz,  a  young  man, 
bred  as  a  doctor  of  Islam,  came  begging  for  an 
interview.  He  confessed  that  he  had  visited 
Martyn  many  times  before  with  the  other  doctors 
to  heap  scorn  on  the  teacher  of  a  despised  sect, 
but  at  every  interview  he  had  found  his  attitude 
changing.  Martyn’s  unfailing  forbearance  to  his 
violence  put  him  to  shame,  and  his  calm  reasoning 
laid  bare  sophistries.  At  last  Muhammad  Rahim 
found  himself  convinced  that  the  “  beardless  boy  ” 
was  right.  Then  for  shame  and  fear  he  had  kept 
away  from  his  presence  for  months.  But  now  he 
heard  that  the  teacher  was  going,  and  he  came 
at  last  to  make  confession  of  his  belief.  Martyn 
put  into  his  hands  that  day  a  copy  of  the  Book, 
a  Persian  New  Testament  that  became  his  lifelong 
companion.  Years  afterwards  Muhammad  Rahim 
confessed  his  conversion  to  a  Christian  traveller, 
and  showed  the  book  that  was  his  greatest  treasure. 
On  one  of  the  blank  leaves  was  written,  “  There  is 
joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth. — 
Henry  Martyn.” 


CHAPTER  XIV » 


THE  TRAVELLER 

Suddenly  I  seem  to  myself  to  see  holy  Martin,  the  bishop,  clad 
in  a  white  robe,  with  face  like  a  flame,  eyes  like  stars,  and  glittering 
hair ;  and,  while  his  person  was  what  I  had  known  it  to  be,  yet, 
what  can  hardly  be  expressed,  I  could  not  look  at  him,  though 
I  could  recognize  him.  .  .  .  He  repeats  the  name  of  the  cross, 
familiar  in  his  mouth  :  next,  while  I  gaze  upon  him,  and  cannot 
take  my  fill  of  his  face  and  look,  suddenly  he  is  caught  aloft,  till, 
after  completing  the  immense  spaces  of  the  air,  I  following  with 
my  eyes  the  swift  cloud  that  carried  him,  he  is  received  into  the 
open  heaven,  and  can  be  seen  no  more.  ...  A  boy  enters  with  a 
speaking  and  sorrowful  countenance  :  “  Why  so  sad  and  eager  to 
speak  ?  ”  say  I.  “  Two  monks,”  he  answers,  “  are  just  come  from 
Tours  ;  they  bring  the  news  that  Martin  is  departed.” — Sulpicius 
Severus,  Life  of  Martin  of  Tours  (translated  by  J.  H.  Newman). 

In  that  yet  mediaeval  Persia,  the  aspiring  poet  or 
man  of  letters  still  laid  his  book  before  the  Shah 
on  his  throne  of  marble  spread  with  cloth  of  gold. 
Fateh  Ali  Shah,1  ruler  of  Persia,  over-lord  of  Georgia 
and  Kurdistan,  was  not  only  the  statesman  who 
received  and  balanced  the  claims  of  embassies 
from  George  III,  from  Napoleon,  from  the  Tzar 
Alexander  and  from  the  Governor-General  Wellesley. 
He  was,  as  he  sat  blazing  with  jewels  before  a 
prostrate  court,  the  fountain  of  taste  and  the  judge 
of  letters  for  his  kingdom.  It  needed  but  a  pro¬ 
nouncement  of  praise  in  his  hollow  rolling  voice, 
and  the  fortunes  of  a  volume  were  made. 


1  1798-1836. 


275 


276 


Henry  Martyn 


Henry  Martyn,  seeing  through  Persian  eyes, 
determined  to  gain  for  the  New  Testament  the 
respect  yielded  to  a  book  approved  at  court. 

As  his  translation  work  drew  to  a  close  he  set 
scribes  preparing  two  volumes  of  exquisite  pen¬ 
manship  for  the  Shah  and  for  his  heir.  Prince  Abbas 
Mirza,  44  the  wisest  of  the  princes.”  The  scribes 
began  work  in  November  1811.  They  brought  him 
the  finished  volumes  in  May  1812,  three  months 
after  the  translator’s  work  was  done.  Lingering 
in  Shiraz  and  waiting  for  their  manuscript  he 
44  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  the  day  ”  by  an 
absorbing  study  of  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew,  and  a 
translation  of  the  Psalter  into  Persian.  It  enthralled 
him  so  that  he  44  hardly  perceived  ”  the  passing  of 
the  days.  44 1  have  long  had  it  in  contemplation,” 
he  wrote  to  Lydia.  44 1  have  often  attempted  the 
84th  Psalm,  endeared  to  me  on  many  accounts,1 
but  have  not  yet  succeeded.  The  glorious  16th 
Psalm  I  hope  I  have  mastered.” 

When  the  scribes  brought  in  their  fair  copies, 
Martyn  wrapped  up  the  costly  manuscripts  un¬ 
corrected.  He  had  none  like-minded  whom  he  could 
put  in  charge  of  the  precious  volumes,  and  he  was 
determined  to  lay  the  books  himself  in  the  royal 
hands,  correcting  them  as  he  travelled.  For  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  sick  man.  He  must  race 
disease  if  he  desired  to  see  the  Book  on  its  way. 
A  long  dispute  with  a  Sufi  doctor  would  leave 
him  still  with  a  raw  pit  of  pain  where  his  breath 
came  and  went. 

He  had  copies  ready  for  the  press.  Four  were 
sent  by  his  direction  to  India  that  his  friends  at 

1  See  Chapter  VI.  p.  117. 


The  Traveller 


inn 


Serampore  might  print  his  translation.1  Other 
copies  he  carried  with  him  on  his  wanderings, 
intending,  if  he  lived,  to  pass  them  on  to  some  press 
in  the  west,  perhaps  at  his  own  university  of  Cam¬ 
bridge.  He  spent  his  last  hours  at  Shiraz  with  his 
fellow-translator  in  giving  instructions  for  the  care 
and  delivery  of  the  Book  in  case  of  his  own  death. 

That  done,  a  little  before  the  closing  of  the  gates 
at  sunset  on  May  11,  1812,  he  left  Shiraz  and 
joined  a  caravan  outside  the  walls,  starting  that 
night  to  ride  across  the  great  Persian  plateau 
from  south  to  north. 

He  was  riding  as  servant  of  the  Book  to  Tabriz 
where  Sir  Gore  Ouseley  lived  ;  for  he  could  only 
be  introduced  into  the  jewelled  presence  of  the 
Shah  by  the  ambassador  who  represented  his 
nation. 

The  air  of  the  uplands  was  cool  enough  for  day 
travelling,  and  the  diary  is  full  of  notes  on  the 
face  of  the  countryside.  Here  44  no  cultivation, 
scarcely  any  plant  except  the  broom  and  haw¬ 
thorn  ”  ;  then  “  a  vast  plain,  entirely  uninhabited 
except  where  the  skirts  of  it  were  spotted  with 
the  black  tents  of  the  wandering  tribes.”  On 
that  high  plateau  it  grew  cold,  even  in  May : 
“  hoar-frost,  and  ice  on  the  pools.  The  highest 

1  The  manuscript  arrived  safely,  but  not  till  1814.  It  was  published 
at  Calcutta  in  1816.  Martyn’s  friend  Mirza  Seid  Ah  was  actually 
sent  for  from  Shiraz  that  he  might  see  it  through  the  press.  When 
he  came,  he  told  the  Calcutta  group  that  he  had  with  him  the  trans¬ 
lation  of  the  Psalms  that  had  been  the  solace  of  Martyn’s  last  months 
at  Shiraz.  Martyn  no  doubt  regarded  this  as  an  uncompleted  task. 
He  had  taken  no  steps  to  preserve  it  for  the  Church.  But  it  formed 
the  nucleus  of  the  beautiful  Persian  Old  Testament  published  in  1846 
in  Edinburgh  and  presented  to  the  Shah  in  1848. 


278 


Henry  Martyn 


land  between  the  Persian  Gulf  and  the  Caspian 
Sea.”  At  night  they  shuddered  in  open  caravan¬ 
serais  that  seemed  to  let  in  wind  and  rain  alike. 
Martyn  after  a  day’s  ride  drew  out  of  its  wrappings 
the  precious  volume  prepared  for  the  Prince,  and 
sat  late  into  the  night  in  some  leaky  hovel,  poring 
over  the  correction  of  his  scribe’s  exquisite  Persian 
lettering. 

After  twelve  days  of  riding  they  came  across 
the  poppy  fields  to  Isfahan,  a  city  of  domes  and 
minarets  and  pigeon  towers,  seen  from  far  across 
the  plain.  Martyn  had  for  companion  in  the 
caravan  another  Englishman  travelling  also  to 
Tabriz  to  join  Sir  Gore  Ouseley’s  suite.  Con¬ 
sequently  they  were  lodged  as  foreigners  of  mark 
in  one  of  the  palaces  of  the  Shah.  Here  they 
paused  a  week  and  there  was  time  for  Martyn  to 
seek  out,  according  to  his  wont,  his  fellow  Christians 
of  those  parts.  He  called  first  on  “  the  Italian 
missionary,  a  native  of  Aleppo,  but  educated  at 
Rome.  He  spoke  Latin  very  sprightly.”  Then 
to  Julfa  to  visit  the  Armenians,  of  whose  ancient 
and  desolate  Church  he  was  always  a  lover,  and 
with  whom  he  spent  many  hours. 

On  the  first  night  of  June  the  caravan  left 
Isfahan,  its  plane  trees  and  its  fountains,  its 
niggardly  merchants  and  its  dreams  of  bygone 
glory.  “  Soon  after  midnight  we  mounted  our 
horses.  It  was  a  mild  moonlight  night  and  a 
nightingale  filled  the  whole  valley  with  his  notes. 
Our  way  was  along  lanes,  a  murmuring  rivulet 
accompanied  us  till  it  was  lost  in  a  lake.” 

At  daylight  they  rode  out  of  these  enchanted 
scenes  on  to  the  great  plain  of  Kashan  where  fat 


The  Traveller 


279 


melons  grow  in  bare  sand,  and  far  away  against 
the  blue  stands  up  a  snowy  mountain  wall,  the 
northern  barrier  of  the  Persian  land. 

After  eight  days  they  came  to  Teheran,  the 
half-ambitious,  half-squalid  city  of  modern  royalty, 
behind  walls  of  unbaked  clay.  They  reached  those 
walls  two  hours  before  sunrise,  and  all  the  twelve 
gates  were  shut. 

“  I  spread  my  bed  upon  the  high  road,  and 
slept  till  the  gates  were  open  ;  then  entered  the 
city  and  took  up  my  abode.”  Here,  at  the  Persian 
capital,  was  the  favourite  palace  of  the  great  Shah, 
with  a  marble  bath  where  his  ladies  might  play, 
and  a  picture  gallery  for  which,  when  Martyn 
came,  an  artist  was  painting  from  memory  a  like¬ 
ness  of  Sir  John  Malcolm,  the  magnificent  ambassador 
whom  Persia  could  not  forget. 

Here  came  the  first  hitch  in  Martyn’s  plans. 
No  muleteers  could  be  found  at  the  moment  willing 
to  travel  to  Tabriz,  where  lay  the  British  ambassador 
who  would  introduce  him  and  his  book  into  the 
royal  presence.  It  meant  delay.  And  Martyn 
in  1812  could  not  brook  delay.  While  life  was 
yet  in  him  he  must  press  on  with  the  Book.  He 
held  letters  of  introduction  to  the  Shah’s  Vizier. 
Better  than  lose  the  time  he  could  not  spare,  should 
he  not  travel  alone  to  the  Shah’s  summer  camping 
ground,  a  night’s  journey  outside  the  city,  and 
ask  the  Prime  Minister  himself  to  bring  him  to 
the  royal  presence  ? 

He  ventured.  He  rode  out  of  Teheran  alone 
with  his  servant,  and  found  the  Vizier  lying  ill 
on  the  veranda  of  the  Shah’s  tent  of  audience. 
Only  that  many-coloured  tent  curtain  hung  between 


28o 


Henry  Martyn 


Martyn  and  his  goal.  The  Vizier  had  two  royal 
secretaries  by  his  couch. 

They  took  very  little  notice,  not  rising  when  I  sat 
down,  as  their  custom  is  to  all  who  sit  with  them  ;  nor 
offering  me  a  water-pipe.  The  two  secretaries  on  learn¬ 
ing  my  object  in  coming,  began  a  conversation  with 
me  on  religion  and  metaphysics  which  lasted  two  hours. 
The  premier  asked  how  many  languages  I  understood  ; 
whether  I  spoke  French  ;  where  I  was  educated  ;  whether 
I  understood  astronomy  and  geography,  and  then  ob¬ 
served  to  the  others  that  I  spoke  good  Persian.  As  they 
were  well-educated  gentlemanly  men,  the  discussion 
was  temperate. 

But  Martyn  had  to  betake  himself  to  the 
caravanserai  that  night,  no  nearer  to  the  jewelled 
figure  in  the  audience  tent,  fed  with  words  and 
offered  no  courteous  hospitality.  He  had  not 
come  with  the  pomp  that  impresses  such  diplomats, 
and  the  Vizier  had  no  intention  of  becoming 
sponsor  for  a  lonely  stranger. 

Martyn  spent  the  evening  on  the  roof  of  the 
inn,  sharing  the  mat  of  a  poor  travelling  merchant 
who  supposed  that  the  western  powers  yet  paid 
tribute  to  Mohammedan  masters  for  permission 
to  live. 

Three  days  later  he  attended  the  Vizier’s  levee 
bearing  the  precious  Book.  All  eyes  were  turned 
on  the  solitary  Frank.  In  that  court  where 
verbal  swordsmanship  was  the  art  of  arts,  a  dis¬ 
cussion  was  inevitable,  but  Martyn  knew  that 
an  angry  discussion  would  ruin  his  chance  of 
seeing  the  face  of  the  Shah. 

He  could  not  prevent  the  very  clash  that  he 
dreaded.  “  There  was  a  most  m temperate  and 
clamorous  controversy  kept  up  for  an  hour  or 


The  Traveller 


281 


two  ;  eight  or  ten  on  one  side  and  myself  on  the 
other.”  He  came  unfriended ;  the  Vizier  en¬ 
couraged  the  attack,  and  the  veneer  of  polish 
was  broken  through  as  they  set  upon  him. 

Their  vulgarity  in  interrupting  me  in  the  middle  of 
a  speech  ;  their  utter  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  an 
argument ;  their  impudent  assertions  about  the  law 
and  the  gospel,  neither  of  which  they  had  ever  seen 
in  their  lives,  moved  my  indignation  a  little. 

His  indignation,  but  not  his  fear.  This  Martyn 
seems  to  have  forgotten  how  to  fear.  The  Vizier 
who  had  at  first  set  them  by  the  ears  came  up  at 
last  to  the  angry  group,  stilled  the  hubbub  and  put 
to  Martyn  before  them  all  a  crucial  question.  He 
challenged  the  stranger  to  recite  the  Moslem  creed. 
44  Say  God  is  God  and  Mohammed  is  the  Prophet 
of  God.” 

It  was  an  electric  moment,  the  whole  court  at 
attention. 

I  said,  “ God  is  God  ”  but  added,  instead  of  “Mahomet 
is  the  prophet  of  God,”  “and  Jesus  is  the  Son  of 
God.” 

They  all  rose  up  as  if  they  would  have  torn  me  in 
pieces, 

snarling  out  one  of  the  classic  fighting  cries  of  the 
Moslem  world,  “  He  is  neither  begotten  nor  begets.” 
44  What  will  you  say  when  your  tongue  is  burnt 
out  for  this  blasphemy  ?  ” 

He  heard  them  in  silence. 

My  book  which  I  had  brought  expecting  to  present  it 
to  the  king  lay  before  Mirza  Shufi,  the  Vizier.  As  they 
all  rose  up  after  him  to  go,  some  to  the  king  and  some 
away,  I  was  afraid  they  would  trample  on  the  book  ; 
so  I  went  in  among  them  to  take  it  up,  and  wrapped  it 


282  Henry  Martyn 

in  a  towel  before  them  ;  while  they  looked  at  it  and 
me  with  supreme  contempt. 

I  walked  away  alone  to  my  tent  to  pass  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  heat  and  dirt. 

A  message  followed  him  from  the  Vizier  refusing 
to  present  him  to  the  Shah  and  referring  him  to 
his  own  ambassador. 

44  Disappointed  of  my  object  in  coming  to  the 
camp,”  he  says,  44  I  lost  no  time  in  leaving  it.”  He 
found  again  his  English  fellow-traveller  who  had 
secured  muleteers  and  now  set  off  for  Tabriz, 
travelling  for  the  first  nine  days  along  a  road 
where  the  Shah  himself  was  soon  to  pass  on  his 
way  to  Sultanieh.  The  north  wind  from  the 
Caspian  blew  over  the  mountains,  and  even  at 
mid-day  in  June  the  air  was  cool.  The  fresh  tang 
of  the  breeze  carried  Martyn  home ;  he  fancied 
himself  trudging  the  roads  near  Cambridge  with 
a  friend  at  his  side,  or  following  a  path  by  the 
Cornish  shore  with  one  beloved  companion.  64  While 
passing  over  the  plain,  mostly  on  foot,  I  had  them 
all  in  my  mind,  and  bore  them  all  in  my  heart  in 
prayer.” 

The  shadow  of  the  royal  progress  lay  on  all  the 
villages. 

All  along  the  road  where  the  king  is  expected,  the 
people  are  patiently  waiting,  as  for  some  dreadful 
disaster  :  plague,  pestilence  or  famine  are  nothing  to 
the  misery  of  being  subject  to  the  violence  and  extortion 
of  this  rabble  soldiery. 

When  they  had  passed  the  Shah’s  camping  ground 
at  Sultanieh  they  came  into  a  new  world,  a  country 
that  has  been  a  meeting  place  of  the  races  of  man¬ 
kind.  The  speech  around  them  began  to  change 


The  Traveller 


283 


from  Persian  to  Turkish,  and  the  caravanserais 
were  the  halting  place  of  men  whose  mules  or 
camels  followed  the  trade  routes  of  the  ancient 
world  from  east  to  west. 

We  found  large  bales  of  cotton  brought  by  merchants 
from  Teheran,  intended  for  Turkey.  There  were  also 
two  Tartar  merchants,  natives  of  Astrachan,  who  had 
brought  iron  and  tea  for  sale.  They  wished  to  know 
whether  we  wanted  tea  of  Cathay. 

Here  in  outlandish  parts,  the  two  Englishmen 
fell  sick. 

June  25,  1812.  After  a  restless  night  rose  so  ill  with 
fever,  that  I  could  not  go  on.  My  companion,  Mr 
Canning,  was  nearly  in  the  same  state.  We  touched 
nothing  all  day. 

After  another  night  of  fever  Martyn  was  for 
dragging  on,  but  Mr  Canning  was  not  well  enough 
to  start.  They  had  before  them  a  stage  of  eight 
or  ten  hours  without  a  house  on  the  way  and  they 
had  been  unable  to  eat  for  two  days  and  were 
suffering  from  headache  and  constant  giddiness. 
No  doubt  it  was  wiser  to  delay,  but  it  added  anxiety 
as  to  whether  their  supplies  could  hold  out  as  far 
as  Tabriz.  They  were  becoming  desperately  short 
of  money. 

Next  day  the  servants  were  down  with  fever 
too,  and  Martyn’s  head  was  “  tortured  with  shock¬ 
ing  pains.”  He  put  it  down  to  exposure  to  the 
sun  which  had  great  power  even  though  the  wind 
blew  cold. 

June  29th  was  a  day  of  acute  pain.  “  I  was 
almost  frantic.” 

“  I  endeavoured,”  he  says,  his  Christianity  in 
1812  anticipating  later  teachings,  “  to  keep  in 


284 


Henry  Martyn 


mind  all  that  was  friendly  ;  a  friendly  Lord  pre¬ 
siding  ;  and  nothing  exercising  me  but  what  would 
show  itself  at  last  friendly.” 

The  fever  passed  for  that  time,  leaving  him 
“  half  dead  ”  but  determined  to  take  the  road. 
When  they  told  him  at  midnight  that  his  horse 
was  ready  he  66  seemed  about  to  sink  into  a  long 
fainting  fit  and  almost  wished  it.  .  .  .  I  set  out 
more  dead  than  alive.” 

Next  day,  shivering  or  burning  by  turns  and 
almost  light-headed,  he  reached  the  outer  bulwarks 
of  the  mountains  that  guard  Persia  on  the  north, 
“  a  most  natural  boundary  it  is.”  The  face  of 
the  land  began  to  be  broken  up  with  very  rocky 
foothills  where  camels  graze  on  scrubby  bushes. 
His  horse  threaded  his  way  for  him  through  the 
boulders,  for  Martyn  in  high  fever  could  not  make 
his  brain  obey  him,  but  travelled  bewildered  through 
the  past,  wandering  in  “  happy  scenes  in  India 
or  England.”  They  lost  him  once ;  for  riding 
on  ahead  he  had  come  to  a  bridge,  and  scarce 
knowing  what  he  did,  left  his  horse  and  crept 
under  the  shadow  of  the  arch,  where  he  sat  with 
two  camel-drivers,  happy  to  be  still  and  cool. 
The  caravan  passed  over  the  bridge  without  the 
sick  man’s  observation,  and  his  fellow-traveller, 
coming  back  to  search  for  him,  found  at  first  only 
a  grazing  horse  and  feared  the  worst. 

So  they  passed  poor  hill  villages  and  came  out 
to  the  pure  clean  air,  the  lovely  natural  pastures 
and  the  churlish  shepherds  of  Azerbaijan.  By 
some  miracle  Martyn  in  “  fever  which  nearly 
deprived  me  of  reason  ”  still  sat  his  horse. 

At  last,  as  the  dawn  of  July  7  shone  coldly  on 


The  Traveller 


285 


the  Blue  Mosque  and  the  Citadel,  he  reached  the 
gate  of  Tabriz,  and  44  feebly  asked  for  a  man  to 
show  me  the  way  to  the  ambassador’s.”  He 
had  been  two  months  on  the  road  when  Sir  Gore 
Ouseley  and  his  lady  received  him  at  the  point 
of  death. 

They  did  all  that  they  could.  The  violence 
of  the  fever  they  could  not  allay  for  another  fort¬ 
night,  but  they  4  4  administered  bark  ”  and  tended 
him  as  if  he  were  a  son.  As  he  lay  there  under 
their  kind  hands,  the  sick  man  knew  that  he  had 
no  more  strength  to  travel,  as  he  had  longed,  to 
Damascus,  to  Baghdad,  and  into  the  heart  of 
Arabia  to  search  for  ancient  versions  and  perfect 
the  Arabic  New  Testament.  His  task  seemed 
dropping  from  his  hands.  Sir  Gore  Ouseley  told 
him  that  he  was  too  ill  to  see  the  Shah  or  the 
Prince,  and  doubtless  dreaded  another  collision 
between  Martyn  and  the  mullahs  of  the  court. 
But  he  comforted  his  guest  with  the  promise  that 
he  would  give  every  possible  eclat  to  the  Book 
by  presenting  it  himself.  The  good  ambassador 
did  more.  He  had  extra  copies  made  for  high 
officials  of  open  mind,  who  might  speak  well  of  the 
Book  to  the  potentate.  When  at  length  the  New 
Testament  reached  the  royal  hands,  the  Shah  was 
graciousness  itself. 

In  truth  [said  the  royal  letter  of  thanks  to  the  am¬ 
bassador]  through  the  learned  and  unremitted  exertions 
of  the  Reverend  Henry  Martyn  it  has  been  translated 
in  a  style  most  befitting  sacred  books,  that  is  in  an  easy 
and  simple  diction.  .  .  .  The  whole  of  the  New  Testa¬ 
ment  is  completed  in  a  most  excellent  manner,  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  our  enlightened  and  august  mind. 

If  it  please  the  most  merciful  God  we  shall  command 


286 


Henry  Martyn 


the  Select  Servants  who  are  admitted  to  our  presence, 
to  read  to  us  the  above-mentioned  book  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end. 

Sir  Gore  Ouseley  did  yet  more.  He  carried  a 
copy  with  him  to  St  Petersburg,  and  there,  at 
the  instigation  of  a  Russian  prince,  the  Bible 
Society  printed  the  Persian  Book,  with  the  British 
ambassador  as  volunteer  proof-reader.  Sir  Gore 
Ouseley’s  Russian  edition  came  into  the  world 
in  the  year  of  Waterloo,  while  the  sister  edition 
in  Calcutta  was  still  struggling  through  the  press. 

So  Martyn ’s  task  passed  into  other  hands,  and  he 
lying  sick  almost  to  death  in  a  mansion  of  Tabriz 
saw  nothing  more  within  his  strength  in  the  east. 
The  ambassador  had  handed  him  a  letter ;  at 
last,  after  more  than  eighteen  months,  a  letter 
from  Lydia.  To  her  and  to  Cornwall  the  sick 
man  turned.  Would  strength  be  granted  him 
to  reach  her  ?  Might  he  not  carry  home  the  New 
Testament,  to  be  printed  perhaps  in  his  own 
Cambridge  ?  If  he  could  only  reach  Lydia,  surely 
he  would  be  well  enough  with  her  to  start  for  more 
service  in  the  east. 

Made  an  extraordinary  effort  and,  as  a  Tartar  was 
going  off  instantly  to  Constantinople,  wrote  letters  to 
Mr  Grant  for  permission  to  come  to  England,  and  to 
Mr  Simeon  and  Lydia  informing  them  of  it. 

We  have  both  those  letters  written  by  the  hand 
of  a  man  who  tells  his  correspondent  that  he  has 
not  the  strength  to  search  his  papers  for  the  last 
home  letters. 

“  I  have  applied  for  leave  to  come  to  England 
on  furlough ;  a  measure  you  will  disapprove,” 


The  Traveller 


287 


so  he  tells  Simeon,  his  feverish  brain  remembering 
the  relentless  standards  of  work  in  the  Cambridge 
parish  and  the  brisk  upright  figure  of  the  leader 
who  never  spared  himself.  44  But  you  would  not 
were  you  to  see  the  pitiable  condition  to  which 
I  am  reduced.”  A  Henry  Martyn’s  plea  against 
some  fancied  charge  of  idleness  must  have  been 
hard  reading  to  his  friend.  Then  the  old  passion 
seizes  the  sick  man,  and  the  pen  flies  in  his  feverish 
hand  as  he  turns  to  the  beloved  work  and  warns 
Simeon  about  some  publication  mooted  in  Cam¬ 
bridge  for  Moslem  readers.  Let  it  not  go  to  press 
until  it  has  been  approved  by  men  who  know  the 
east  and  know  eastern  ways  of  seeing,  imagining 
and  reasoning.  He  tells  of  the  last  treatise  he 
had  written  in  Shiraz  and,  with  a  rare  note  of 
satisfaction  in  any  work  of  his  own,  records  his 
hope  that  44  there  is  not  a  single  Europeanism  in 
the  whole  of  it.” 

But  I  am  exhausted  ;  pray  for  me,  beloved  brother, 
and  believe  that  I  am,  as  long  as  life  and  recollection 
last,  yours  affectionately,  H.  Martyn. 

To  Lydia,  lest  she  should  dwell  on  his  sickness, 
he  writes  of  his  spiritual  solace ;  44  The  love  of 

God  never  appeared  more  clear,  more  sweet,  more 
strong.”  Then,  lest  she  should  build  on  his  coming, 
he  adds,  44 1  must  faithfully  tell  you  that  the 
probability  of  my  reaching  England  alive  is  but 
small.” 

The  Tartar  courier  galloped  off  with  the  letters 
and  the  sick  man  lay  back  exhausted.  Nothing 
was  left  him  to  do,  but  to  gather  strength  for  the 
homeward  journey. 


288 


Henry  Martyn 


A  month  later,  “  a  mere  skeleton  ”  after  two 
months  of  fever,  he  sat  up  in  a  chair  and  wrote 
his  will  “  with  a  strong  hand.” 

August  21-81.  Making  preparations  for  my  journey 
to  Constantinople,  a  route  recommended  to  me  by  Sir 
Gore  as  safer,  and  one  in  which  he  could  give  me  letters 
of  recommendation  to  two  Turkish  governors. 

Sir  Gore  also  procured  an  order  for  Martyn  to 
use  the  Government  post-horses  as  far  as  Erivan. 
But  Martyn  had  seen  the  hardships  that  the  levies 
of  royal  underlings  brought  upon  the  peasants. 
“  These  post-horses  I  was  told  were  nothing  else 
than  the  beasts  the  prince’s  servants  levy  on  every 
village.  I  determined  not  to  use  them.” 

Before  setting  out  he  wrote  a  last  letter  to  Lydia, 
a  letter  to  be  read  and  re-read  on  her  knees  where 
his  portrait  hung  beneath  a  print  of  the  Crucifixion 
in  a  room  that  looked  out  across  the  shimmer  of 
Mount’s  Bay. 

In  three  days  I  intend  setting  my  horse’s  head  towards 
Constantinople,  distant  above  thirteen  hundred  miles. 
.  .  .  Soon  we  shall  have  occasion  for  pen  and  ink  no 
more  ;  but  I  trust  I  shall  shortly  see  thee  face  to  face. 

Believe  me  to  be  yours  ever,  most  faithfully  and 
affectionately,  H.  Martyn. 

On  September  2,  1812,  he  set  out  with  a  little 
party  of  guides  and  servants,  while  the  ambassador 
and  his  lady,  having  done  all  they  could  to  help 
him,  measured  with  doubtful  eyes  the  strength  of 
the  haggard  convalescent  against  1500  1  miles  of 
hardship. 

1  Dr  George  Smith  says  that  the  distance  from  Tabriz  to  Con¬ 
stantinople  is  1500  miles,  though  Martyn  reckoned  it  1300. 


The  Traveller 


289 


At  sunset  we  left  the  western  gate  of  Tabriz  behind 
us.  The  plain  towards  the  west  and  south-west  stretches 
away  to  an  immense  distance  bounded  by  mountains 
so  remote  as  to  appear  from  their  soft  blue  to  blend 
with  the  skies. 

He  “  ambled  on  ”  with  the  keen  sense  of  the 
convalescent  for  the  beauty  and  freedom  of  the 
outside  world,  gazing  at  “  the  distant  hills  with 
gratitude  and  joy.”  His  way  through  Azerbaijan 
and  Armenia  always  tending  westward  was  the 
“  Royal  Road  ”  of  ancient  Persia  along  which 
the  service  of  the  Great  King  passed  from  Susa 
to  the  west.  It  was  marked  at  each  twentieth 
or  twenty-fifth  mile  by  a  post-station  built  of 
mud  bricks,  such  as  went  to  the  building  of  Babylon 
the  great.  Here  men  and  beasts  fared  much  alike 
as  to  lodging. 

In  cities  where  Martyn  had  letters  of  introduction 
he  might  hire  a  room  from  a  citizen.  “  I  was  led 
from  street  to  street  till  at  last  I  was  lodged  in 
a  wash-house  belonging  to  a  great  man,  a  corner 
of  which  was  cleared  out  for  me.” 

A  room  secured,  at  the  end  of  the  day’s  hard 
riding  there  were  the  perennial  discomforts  of  such 
travel :  mosquitoes  and  lice,  “  the  smell  of  the 
stable  so  strong  that  I  was  quite  unwell,”  and  the 
incessant  crowding  and  chatter  of  people  who 
could  not  or  would  not  understand  his  desire  to  rest 
alone.  It  was  always  Martyn  too  who  must  be 
the  one  to  wake  at  midnight  and  rouse  his  party 
and  stand  urgent  over  them  as  they  dawdled  round 
the  baggage  sleepy  and  loth  to  start. 

The  travelling  was  hard  even  for  a  hale  man. 
He  crossed  the  Araxes  ;  he  left  great  Ararat  upon 

T 


290 


Henry  Martyn 


his  left  (“so  may  I,  safe  in  Christ,  outride  the  storm 
of  life  and  land  at  last  on  one  of  the  everlasting 
hills,”  he  prayed,  thinking  of  Noah) ;  he  passed 
through  a  rich  land  of  streams  where  a  precious 
trunk  full  of  books  was  dropped  and  soaked,  and 
he  had  a  midnight  fire  built  to  dry  them.  He 
spent  nights  in  rooms  built  over  or  beside  the 
family  stable  for  the  sake  of  the  warmth  from 
the  beasts  in  winter,  but  now  in  September  over¬ 
powering  in  heat  and  stench ;  and  he  rode  on, 
“  thinking  of  a  Hebrew  letter,”  and  so  “  perceiving 
little  of  the  tediousness  of  the  way.  .  .  All  day 
on  the  15th  and  16th  Psalms  and  gained  some  light 
on  the  difficulties.” 

So  meditating  on  his  songs  of  degrees,  he  came 
to  Erivan,  and  laid  the  ambassador’s  letter  before 
a  provincial  governor  to  whom  his  distant  over- 
lord,  the  Shah,  seemed  but  a  shadowy  personage. 

I  was  summoned  to  his  presence.  He  at  first  took 
no  notice  of  me,  but  continued  reading  his  Koran.  After 
a  compliment  or  two,  he  resumed  his  devotions.  The 
next  ceremony  was  to  exchange  a  rich  shawl  dress  for  a 
still  richer  pelisse  on  pretence  of  its  being  cold.  The  next 
display  was  to  call  for  his  physician,  who  after  respect¬ 
fully  feeling  his  pulse  stood  on  one  side. 

Having  sufficiently  impressed  the  thin,  sick 
traveller  with  his  greatness,  he  called  a  secretary 
to  pick  up  from  the  floor  the  letter  of  the  British 
ambassador,  and  to  read  it  in  his  august  ears. 
The  letter  interested  him  and  he  grew  languidly 
attentive,  but  his  hopes  were  set  on  some  grapes 
and  melons  cooling  before  him  in  a  marble  fountain, 
and  he  sent  the  saint  away,  not  knowing  that  he 
had  met  a  man  of  God. 


The  Traveller 


291 


On  September  12  Martyn  left  his  servants  waiting 
for  fresh  horses,  and  rode  alone  to  visit  his  brothers 
the  Armenian  monks  at  Etchmiazin,  the  mother- 
city  of  their  church. 

The  way-worn  figure  rode  into  “  a  large  court 
with  monks,  cowled  and  gowned,  moving  about. 
On  seeing  my  Armenian  letters  they  brought  me 
at  once  to  the  Patriarch’s  lodge  where  I  found 
two  bishops  at  breakfast.”  He  struck  up  at  once 
a  friendship  with  a  young  monk  of  his  own  age 
named  Serope,  “  bold,  authoritative  and  very  able,” 
and  full  of  reforming  plans  for  his  Church,  “  but 
then  he  is  not  spiritual.”  They  talked  all  day. 
“When  the  bell  rang  for  vespers,  we  went  together 
to  the  great  Church.” 

Next  day  Martyn  waited  on  the  Patriarch,  who 
received  him  on  a  throne,  surrounded  by  standing 
monks.  “  I  told  the  Patriarch  that  I  was  so 
happy  in  being  here  that  I  could  almost  be  willing 
to  be  a  monk  with  them.” 

When  the  young  monk  who  welcomed  Martyn 
had  become  a  silvery-bearded  bishop  he  told  a 
European  traveller  1  his  impressions  of  that  visit. 
“  He  described  Martyn  to  me  as  being  of  a  very 
delicate  frame,  thin,  and  not  quite  of  the  middle 
stature,  a  beardless  youth,  with  a  countenance 
beaming  with  so  much  benignity  as  to  bespeak 
an  errand  of  Divine  love.  Of  the  affairs  of  the 
world  he  seemed  to  be  so  ignorant  that  Serope 
was  obliged  to  manage  for  him  respecting  his 
travelling  arrangements  and  money  matters.  A 
Tartar  was  employed  to  take  him  to  Tokat.  He 
(Serope)  was  greatly  surprised,  he  said,  that  Martyn 

1  Mr  George  Fowler. 


292 


Henry  Martyn 


was  so  eminent  a  Christian ;  ‘  since  (said  he) 

all  the  English  I  have  hitherto  met  with  not  only 
make  no  profession  of  religion,  but  live  seemingly 
in  contempt  of  it.’  ” 

Serope  took  Martyn  in  hand,  changed  most  of 
his  travelling  kit,  and  bought  him  a  sword  against 
the  Kurdish  robbers. 

So  he  left  them  with  new  baggage  and  a  new 
train,  “  a  trusty  servant  from  the  monastery  ” 
carrying  his  money. 

On  September  19  they  passed  from  the  Persian 
province  of  Erivan  to  the  neighbour  province  of 
Kars 1  and  so  left  the  domains  of  the  Shah  for 
those  of  the  Sultan  of  Turkey. 

Troubles  began. 

The  headman  of  the  village  paid  me  a  visit.  He  was 
a  young  Mussulman  and  took  care  of  all  my  Mussulman 
attendants  ;  but  he  left  my  Armenians  and  me  where 
he  found  us.  I  was  rather  uncomfortably  lodged,  my 
room  being  a  thoroughfare  for  horses,  cows,  buffaloes 
and  sheep.  Almost  all  the  village  came  to  look  at  me. 

Each  day  there  were  alarms  of  Kurdish  robbers. 
Martyn’s  escort  met  even  poor  companies  of  peasants 
with  suspicion  and  with  pieces  cocked,  and  every 
travelling  party  was  passed  with  furtive  glances 
and  hands  lingering  on  weapons.  Each  trifling 
incident  of  the  way  revealed  that  one  of  the  com¬ 
pany,  the  Tartar  guide  named  Hassan,  was  a  man 
with  the  nature  of  that  soldiery  which  could  plait 
a  crown  of  thorns  for  a  scourged  prisoner. 

The  Tartar  began  to  show  his  nature  by  flogging  the 
baggage-horse  with  his  long  whip  ;  but  one  of  the  poor 
beasts  presently  fell  with  his  load. 

1  Both  provinces  became  part  of  Russian  Transcaucasia  after  the 
war  of  1828. 


The  Traveller 


293 


Or  again  : 

In  this  room  I  should  have  been  very  much  to  my 
satisfaction  had  not  the  Tartar  taken  part  of  the  same 
bench.  It  was  evident  that  the  Tartar  was  the  great 
man  here  :  he  took  the  best  place  for  himself ;  a  dinner 
of  four  or  five  dishes  was  laid  before  him.  When  I  asked 
for  eggs  they  brought  me  rotten  ones.  * 

With  a  stern  vigorous  master  Hassan  might 
have  done  good  service.  With  a  sick  man  he 
showed  himself  a  brute. 

September  24.  A  long  and  sultry  march  over  many 
a  hill  and  vale.  Two  hours  from  the  last  stage  is  a  hot 
spring  :  the  water  fills  a  pool  having  four  porches.  The 
porches  instantly  reminded  me  of  Bethesda’s  pool.  In 
them  all  the  party  undressed  and  bathed.  The  Tartar 
to  enjoy  himself  more  perfectly  had  his  calean  to  smoke 
while  up  to  his  chin  in  water. 

Kars  was  left  behind,  then  Erzerum,  but  fever 
was  winning  the  race. 

September  29.  We  moved  to  a  village  where  I  was 
attacked  with  fever  and  ague. 

October  1.  We  were  out  from  seven  in  the  morning 
till  eight  at  night.  After  sitting  a  little  by  the  fire 
I  was  near  fainting  from  sickness.  I  learned  that  the 
plague  was  raging  at  Constantinople  and  thousands 
dying  every  day.  The  inhabitants  of  Tocat  were  flying 
from  their  town  from  the  same  cause. 

October  2.  Some  hours  before  day  I  sent  to  tell  the 
Tartar  I  was  ready,  but  Hassan  was  for  once  riveted 
to  his  bed.  However,  at  eight,  having  got  strong  horses, 
he  set  off  at  a  great  rate.  He  made  us  gallop  as  fast 
as  the  horses  would  go  to  Chifflik,  where  we  arrived  at 
sunset.  I  was  lodged  at  my  request  in  the  stables  of 
the  post-house.  As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  a  little  cold 
the  ague  came  on,  then  the  fever. 

In  the  night  Hassan  sent  to  summon  me  away,  but  I 
was  quite  unable  to  move.  Finding  me  still  in  bed  at  the 


294 


Henry  Martyn 


dawn  he  began  to  storm  furiously  at  my  detaining  him  so 
long ;  but  I  quietly  let  him  spend  his  ire,  ate  my  breakfast 
and  set  out  at  eight.  He  seemed  determined  to  make  up 
for  the  delay,  for  we  flew  over  hill  and  dale  to  Sherean,1 
where  we  changed  horses.  From  thence  we  travelled 
all  the  rest  of  the  day  and  all  night.  It  rained.  The 
ague  came  on.  There  was  a  village  at  hand  but  Hassan 
'  had  no  mercy.  At  one  in  the  morning  we  found  two 
men  under  a  wain  with  a  good  fire  ;  I  dried  my  lower 
extremities,  allayed  the  fever  by  drinking  a  good  deal 
of  water  and  went  on.  The  night  was  pitchy  dark  so 
that  I  could  not  see  the  road  under  my  horse’s  feet. 
We  arrived  at  the  munzil  2  at  break  of  day.  Hassan  was 
in  great  fer  r  of  being  arrested  here  ;  the  governor  of 
the  city  had  vowed  to  make  an  example  of  him  for  riding 
to  death  a  horse  belonging  to  a  man  of  this  place. 

He  hurried  me  away  without  delay  ;  and  galloped 
furiously  towards  a  village  which  he  said  was  four  hours 
distant,  which  was  all  I  could  undertake  in  my  weak 
state  ;  but  village  after  village  did  he  pass  till,  night 
coming  on,  I  suspected  that  he  was  carrying  me  on  to 
the  munzil  ;  so  I  got  off  my  horse,  and  sat  upon  the 
ground,  and  told  him  “  I  neither  could  nor  would  go 
any  farther.”  He  stormed,  but  I  was  immovable, 
till,  a  light  appearing  at  a  distance,  I  mounted  and  made 
towards  it.  He  brought  in  the  party,  but  would  not 
exert  himself  to  get  a  place  for  me.  Sergius  told  them 
I  wanted  a  place  in  which  to  be  alone.  This  seemed 
very  offensive  to  them  ;  “  And  why  must  he  be  alone  ?  ” 
they  asked,  attributing  this  desire  of  mine  to  pride, 
I  suppose.  Tempted  at  last  by  money  they  brought  me 
to  a  stable  room,  and  Hassan  and  a  number  of  others 
planted  themselves  there  with  me.  My  fever  here 
increased  to  a  violent  degree  ;  the  heat  in  my  eyes  and 
forehead  was  so  great  that  the  fire  almost  made  me 
frantic.  I  entreated  that  it  might  be  put  out,  or  that 
I  might  be  carried  out  of  doors.  Neither  was  attended 
to  ;  my  servant,  who,  from  my  sitting  in  that  strange 
way  on  the  ground,  believed  me  delirious,  was  deaf  to 

1  Generally  written  Sheheran. 

a  The  halting  place  at  the  end  of  each  stage  of  about  twenty-five 
miles. 


The  Traveller 


295 


all  I  said.  At  last  I  pushed  my  head  in  among  the 
luggage  and  lodged  it  on  the  damp  ground,  and  slept. 

October  5.  The  merciless  Hassan  hurried  me  off. 
The  munzil,  however,  not  being  distant  I  reached  it 
without  much  difficulty.  I  was  pretty  well  lodged  and 
felt  tolerably  well  till  a  little  after  sunset,  when  the  ague 
came  on  with  a  violence  I  had  never  before  experienced  ; 
I  felt  as  if  in  a  palsy,  my  teeth  chattering  and  my  whole 
frame  violently  shaken. 

Two  Persians  came  to  visit  him  as  he  lay 
shivering. 

These  Persians  appear  quite  brotherly  after  the  Turks. 
While  they  pitied  me,  Hassan  sat  in  perfect  indifference, 
ruminating  on  the  further  delay  this  was  likely  to 
occasion.  The  cold  fit  after  continuing  two  or  three 
hours  was  followed  by  a  fever,  which  lasted  the  whole 
night  and  prevented  sleep. 

October  6.  No  horses  being  to  be  had,  I  had  an 
unexpected  repose.  I  sat  in  the  orchard,  and  thought 
with  sweet  comfort  and  peace  of  my  God  ;  in  solitude 
my  Company,  my  Friend  and  Comforter.  Oh,  when 
shall  time  give  place  to  eternity !  When  shall  appear  the 
new  heaven  and  new  earth  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness! 
There  shall  in  no  wise  enter  in  anything  that  defileth  : 
none  of  that  wickedness  which  has  made  men  worse 
than  wild  beasts  shall  be  seen  or  heard  of  any  more. 

There  was  no  later  entry  in  the  journal ;  but 
he  had  not  come  yet  to  the  end  of  that  impossible 
ride.  Day  after  day  they  dragged  him  on,  waking 
him  out  of  feverish  sleep  to  start  before  the  sun. 

Up,  0  ye  lovers  and  away  !  ’ Tis  time  to  leave  the  world 

for  aye  ; 

Hark ,  loud  and  clear  from  heaven  the  drum  of  parting  calls 
— let  none  delay  ; 

The  cameleer  hath  risen  amain ,  made  ready  all  the  camel 
train , 

And  quittance  now  desires  to  gain  :  why  sleep  ye  travellers, 
I  pray  f 


296 


Henry  Martyn 


Behind  us  and  before  there  swells  the  din  of  parting  and  of 
bells ; 

To  shoreless  space  each  moment  sails  a  disembodied  spirit 
away. 

0  heart ,  towards  thy  heart's  love  wend ,  and  O  friend ,  fly 
toward  the  Friend  ! 1 

On  October  14,  1812,  Martyn  bade  his  Armenian 
servant  Sergius  make  a  list  of  his  papers  and  carry 
them  for  him  to  Constantinople.  They  had  ridden 
him  to  death,  but  there  is  no  story  of  that  death¬ 
bed.  We  know  that  he  came  at  the  last  “  a  young 
man,  wanting  still  the  years  of  Christ,”  to  Tokat 
under  its  weird  pile  of  castellated  hill,  a  city  of 
the  copper-merchants,  but  then  grim  with  plague. 
We  know  too  that  in  fever  his  mind  was  always 
moving  among  friends  in  India  or  in  England. 

So  he  came  to  Tokat,  and  the  mule-bells  in 
the  narrow  streets  jingled  in  dying  ears.  Or 
were  they  sheep-bells  ?  sheep  bells  on  the  moors  ? 

They  probably  laid  him  down  to  die  amid  the 
babel  of  an  eastern  khan.  .  .  That  everlasting  smell 
of  the  stable  !  Why  could  not  the  General  find 
a  better  place  for  service  than  the  riding  school  ? 
But  then  the  Lord  was  born  in  a  stable.  A  man 
could  worship  there.  .  .  But  that  raging  voice !  If 
only  the  tormenting  flood  of  words  might  cease  ! 
Was  it  Sabat  or  the  Tartar  ?  Sons  of  thunder, 
both  of  them.  Sons  of  thunder  He  called  them, 
yes,  and  loved  them  too. 

Why  that  never-ending  clatter  on  the  cobbles  ? 
Little  hurrying  feet  of  donkeys.  And  people  too. 
Surely  so  many  people  were  never  seen  in  Truro 

1  Selected  Poems  from  the  Divan-i-Shams-i-Tabriz  translated  by 
R.  A.  Nicholson. 


The  Traveller 


297 


Street  before,  and  all  so  beautiful.  There  was 
Corrie,  what  a  friend  he  was !  and  Sally  with 
Cousin  Emma,  and  Sargent  and  Dr  Cardew  (but 
no  matter  ;  the  lesson  was  ready  to  show  up) — 
and  Lydia.  Of  course  she  would  come  at  last. 
How  her  face  was  shining  like  a  star.  How  all 
the  faces  shone  with  the  light  of  God.  .  .  Was  that 
an  Armenian  priest  standing  at  prayer  ?  Simeon 
had  surely  come  at  last  with  the  Bread  and  Wine. 
How  sweet  his  voice  grew,  like  the  music  in  King’s 
Chapel !  “  We  praise  Thee,  we  bless  Thee,  we 

worship  Thee,  we  glorify  Thee,  we  give  thanks  to 
Thee  for  Thy  great  glory.” 

“  For  Thou  only  art  holy  ;  Thou  only  art  the 
Lord  ;  Thou  only,  O  Christ  .  . 

Some  weeks  later  an  Armenian  named  Sergius, 
hot  from  travel,  carried  a  bundle  of  papers  into 
the  house  of  Mr  Isaac  Morier  at  Constantinople, 
and  said  that  they  came  from  his  master  who  had 
died  on  October  16,  1812,  at  Tokat,  where  the 
Armenian  clergy  gave  him  Christian  burial. 


Note  for  page  264 

From  f<  The  Memory  of  Martyn  in  the  Sahara  M 
Church  Missionary  Review  (December  1912) 

In  May  1864  the  Rev.  C.  F.  Oakley,  speaking  at 
Islington,  said  : 

In  French  Algeria,  near  El  Aghonal,  I  found  some 
tribes  of  Arabs  who  belonged  to  the  oasis  of  the  Beni 
Nizab.  ...  A  chief  of  considerable  power  invited  me 
to  visit  him  in  a  place  far  away  in  the  desert  of 
the  South — Beni  Salem.  I  accepted  his  invitation,  and 
after  many  days’  journey  across  the  sands  arrived  at 
my  resting-place.  I  found  all  the  hospitality  which  an 
Arab  chief  could  give.  .  .  .  He  caused  a  large  box  to 
be  brought  in  and  opened  before  my  eyes.  From  this 
box  he  took  out  a  very  singular  collection  of  Arabic 
manuscripts  and  books.  At  last  he  came  to  a  book 
in  Persian,  the  sight  of  which  in  the  great  desert  quite 
surprised  me  ;  it  seemed  like  finding  a  Russian  book  in 
the  Scotch  Highlands.  I  said,  “  How  came  this  book 
here  ?  Can  you  read  it  ?  ”  “  No.”  “  Why  then  do 

you  keep  it  with  all  this  care  ?  ”  (It  was  wrapped  in 
folds  of  silk.)  He  said  in  substance  what  follows  : — 

“  I  will  tell  you,  Christian,  the  history  of  that  book, 
and  you  will  see  why  I  keep  it.  My  father,  like  his 
fathers  for  many  generations,  ruled  over  the  tribe  of  the 
Beni  Salem.  When  he  was  young  and  strong  he  went 
as  a  Hadji  on  the  great  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  and  Medina. 
He  went  on  that  journey  in  the  year  before  the  Sheikh 
of  the  Franks  (Napoleon  I),  uncle  of  the  present  Sheikh, 
went  to  the  land  of  snow  (Moscow).  He  went  to  the 
birthplace  and  tomb  of  Mohammed.  Thence  he  went  to 
Persia  and  visited  many  towns  in  that  country,  among 
them  Shiraz.  While  he  was  there,  enquiring  about  many 
things,  he  often  heqrd  men  speak  of  an  Englishman  who 
had  come  to  that  city,  and  at  last  he  went  to  see 

298 


Note 


299 


him,  and  was  received  by  him  with  kindness.  During 
the  time  they  both  remained  there  they  often  talked 
together  about  many  things  connected  with  religion,  and 
the  Englishman  spoke  particularly  to  my  father  concern¬ 
ing  Sidi  ’Isa  (Jesus  Christ),  and  my  father  heard  him 
gladly.  After  a  time  the  Englishman  went  away,  and 
among  the  books  he  used  to  read  was  the  one  I  have 
here,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  English  friend,  my  father 
brought  that  book  home  with  him  when  he  returned  to 
the  Sahara.  Many  times  afterwards  my  father  asked 
about  that  Englishman,  and  heard  that  he  never  lived  to 
reach  his  own  land,  but  died  and  was  buried  at  Tokat, 
on  his  way  to  Stamboul.  But  my  father  never  forgot 
what  the  Englishman  had  said  to  him,  and  when  he  was 
near  his  death  he  called  me  to  him  and  said,  ‘  My 
son,  when  I  am  dead  you,  like  myself,  will  be  head  of 
the  Beni  Salem.  Remember,  therefore,  that  when  your 
father  was  dying,  when  the  angel  of  death  was  near  him, 
he  said  this  to  you  :  If  ever  there  comes  to  the  Sahara 
an  Englishman  declaring  that  he  is  the  servant  of  Jesus 
Christ,  mark  that  man,  and  if  he  will  not  travel  on  one 
day  in  seven,  nor  work  on  that  day,  nor  do  any  such 
things  as  he  does  on  other  days,  be  kind  to  that  man,  be 
to  him  as  a  brother,  for  the  sake  of  that  Englishman  who 
was  a  brother  to  me  while  I  was  at  Shiraz  in  Persia.’  ” 


Index 


A 

Abd  el  Masih,  234-5 
Aldeen,  David  Brown’s  home  at, 
160  et  seq.,  237 
Arabic  New  Testament — 
proposed  to  Martyn,  198 
commencement  of,  205 
Martyn’s  decision  to  go  to 
Arabia,  233 

approved  by  Arabs,  252 
Armenian  Christians,  269,  278, 
291—2 

“  Associated  Clergy,  The,”  186, 
190,  197 


B 

Bible  Society,  Calcutta  branch, 
199,  242 

Bombay,  visit  to,  242-9 

Brainerd,  David,  84-7 
influence  on  Martyn,  87-90, 
105,  111,  136 

Brown,  David — 

first  chaplain  of  East  Lidia 
Company,  28  et  seq.,  155 
friendship  with  Charles  Grant, 
30 

takes  Martyn  to  his  home  at 
Aldeen,  161  et  seq. 

“  The  Associated  Clergy,”  186, 
197 

proposals  to  Martyn  re  trans¬ 
lation  work,  198 
friendship  with  Baptist  mis¬ 
sionaries,  199 

Buchanan,  Claudius,  158-9,  186, 
194-9 


C 

Calcutta,  see  chaps,  i  and  viii 
at  end  of  18th  century,  19  et 
seq.,  155-60 

Martyn’s  work  there,  161-9 
the  Old  Mission  Church,  29, 
162,  196 

Fort  William  College,  154, 
158-9,  164,  166,  194,  195, 
243 

Cambridge,  see  chaps,  iii-v 
of  Martyn’s  time,  48-52 
“  Methodists  ”  at,  61  et  seq. 
volunteer  corps,  82 
Cape,  The — 

capture  of,  145-8 
Martyn  at,  148-9 
Carey,  William — 

at  Serampore,  159,  162,  164 
professor  of  Bengali,  159 
welcomes  Martyn  to  India,  160 
Cawnpore,  see  chap,  xi 
Sherwoods’  home,  214-18 
Martyn’s  household,  220 
opening  of  church,  234 
Clapham,  religious  circle,  106-10 
Cornwall,  see  chap,  ii 

Martyn’s  childhood,  40-5 
holidays,  71,  79 
preaching  in,  113-14 
John  Wesley  in,  39-40,  41-2 
Corrie,  Daniel — 

visits  Martyn  in  Calcutta, 
166-7 

reference  to  Martyn’s  preach¬ 
ing,  169 

correspondence  with  Martyn, 
185-6 

rescues  Martyn’s  Journal.  235 

301 


302 


Henry  Martyn 


D 

Dinapore,  see  chap,  ix 

Martyn’s  appointment  to,  170 
his  life  there,  179  et  seq. 
work  among  Europeans, 
179-84 

work  among  Indians,  184-5 


E 

East  India  Company,  18  et  seq., 
128-9,  133,  179,  195 
Martyn’s  chaplaincy,  104-5, 
111 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  95-6 
Elphinstone,  Mountstuart,  242- 
4,  246 


F 

Fay,  Mrs  Eliza,  quoted ,  20,  24-5 
Fort  William  College,  see  Cal¬ 
cutta 


O 

Grant,  Charles,  30-6,  69,  104-6, 
111 

Grenfell,  Emma,  see  Hitchins 
Grenfell,  Lydia,  see  chap,  vi 
also  130,  170-4,  187-90,  224, 
229,  250,  286,  287,  288 


H 

Hindustani  New  Testament,  190, 
198,  240 

Hitchins,  Emma,  115,  120-2, 124 
Hitchins,  Fortescue,  45,  46,  73 
Hitchins,  Malachy,  46,  73,  114, 
115,  120 

Hitchins,  Tom,  46,  115,  120 


I 

India,  Governors -General  in, 
155-60 

India,  Martyn’s  voyage  to,  see 
chap,  vii 

work  on  board,  133  et  seq. 
friendship  with  Mackenzie,  136 
study  of  Hindustani  with 
Lascars,  142 
at  San  Salvador,  143-4 
at  the  Cape,  146-9 
surrender  of  Cape  Town,  148 
arrival  at  Ceylon,  152 

Islam,  Mirza  Ibrahim’s  defence 
of,  270-1 


J 

Jaffir  Ali  Khan,  258-9,  263 
Journal,  Martyn’s — 
its  purpose,  77-8 
saved  by  Corrie,  235 


K 

Kempthorne,  John,  44-5,  48,  54, 
57 


L 

Language  study,  100,  141-2, 
144,  151,  164,  177,  198 
see  also  Translation  work 
Lolworth,  Martyn’s  curacy  at, 
97  et  seq. 

London,  visits  to,  105-11 


M 

Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  246-7 
Madeira,  140-1 

Malcolm,  Sir  John,  247-9,  258, 
263,  279 


Index 


303 


Marazion,  114-16,  124-5 
Marshman,  John  Clark,  22, 
164-5,  177,  200 

Martyn,  John  (the  elder),  38-40, 
56,  70 

Martyn,  John  (the  younger),  40, 
41,  104 

Martyn,  Laura,  40,  79,  187 
Martyn,  Sally,  40,  55,  60,  71, 
91-2,  104,  121,  224,  229 


N 

New  Testament,  translations  of, 
see  Translation  work 

Newton,  John,  101,  102,  110 


O 

Ordination — 
as  deacon,  93 
as  priest,  111 

Ouseley,  Sir  Gore,  253,  260,  277, 
285-6 

P 

Persia,  see  chaps,  xii  and  xiii 
decision  to  travel  there,  240 
voyage  to,  249-51 
journey  to  Shiraz,  252-8 
visit  to  Shah’s  Vizier,  279-82 
journey  to  Tabriz,  277-85 
Persian  New  Testament,  190, 
198,  210,  252,  261  et  seq. 
completed,  273 

commendation  by  Shah, 
285-6 

publication  in  Calcutta,  277 
publication  in  Russia,  286 


8 

Sabat,  Nathaniel,  191,  198, 

205-10,  220-1,  240,  265 


St  Hilary  Vicarage,  46,  114-15, 
117,  150,  187 
San  Salvador,  142-4 
Sargent,  John,  74-7,  122 
Seid  Ali,  Mirza,  259,  265,  266-8, 
277 

Serampore  missionaries,  162, 
164-5,  177,  199-200 
Sherwood,  Mrs,  see  chap,  xi 
household  at  Cawnpore,  214- 
18,  221-3 

quoted ,  191-3,  206,  215  et  seq. 
Shiraz,  see  chap,  xiii 
journey  to,  252-8 
Christmas  at,  269-70 
Simeon,  Charles 
religious  influence  in  Cam¬ 
bridge,  62-8 

influence  on  Martyn,  74,  76-7, 
89-90 

Martyn  his  curate,  79,  97  et 
seq. 

farewell  to  Martyn,  123 
visit  to  Lydia  Grenfell,  189-90 
“  Society  for  Missions  to  Africa 
and  the  East,”  90-1 
Sufism,  266  et  seq. 


T 

Tabriz,  journey  to,  277-85 
Thomason,  Thomas,  101,  237-9 
Tokat,  Martyn’s  last  journey, 
291-7 

Translation  work,  see  chap,  x 
also  190,  221,  232-3,  276 
Arabic  New  Testament,  198, 
205,  233,  252 

Hindustani  New  Testament, 
190,  198,  240 

Persian  New  Testament,  190, 
198,  210,  252,  261  et  seq. , 
273,  277,  285-6,  286 
Truro — 

Martyn’s  birth,  40 
John  Wesley  in,  39-42 
Grammar  School,  43-5 


304 


Henry  Martyn 


V 

Wellesley,  Lord,  22,  27,  156-60, 
195,  275 

Vanderkemp,  Dr,  148-9 

Voyages,  see  under  India,  Persia 

Wesley,  John,  39-42 

Wilberforce,  William,  104,  106, 
108,  110 

W 

X 

Walker,  Samuel,  37-9 

Xavier,  Francis,  168,  246 

